Of Psychics and Psychopaths
by VampSlayer91
Summary: Kat Wilson moved to London six months ago. FULL SUMMARY INSIDE!
1. Cheater, Cheater

Kat Wilson came to London six months ago with a secret. She's searching for someone, and she's using that secret to help find him. That was six months ago. In that time, she got a job she didn't need, made some friends, and found the perfect boyfriend (or so she thought). When she finds her boyfriend cheating on her, she turns to her best friend to help her find a new flat. Luckily, our favorite landlady has one available, and it just happens to be upstairs from our favorite Consulting Detective. Can she find the person she's looking for? Can she be happy? And how will Sherlock react to her secret? Set during Season 1, but Sherlock and John have already been flat mates for a month. Also, I am basing Sherlock's age (26) on the ACD canon, which says that he was born in either 1854 or 1861 (which is the year I'm choosing) and the year in which Sherlock Holmes first appeared in The Strand Magazine, 1887.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock. If I did, he wouldn't _have_ a Purple Shirt of Sexy. He wouldn't have _any _shirts ;D  
Sherlock (that totally awesome show on the Telly) is owned by the BBC, Steven Moffat (whose writing both intrigues and terrifies me at the same time), and Mark Gatiss (who plays a very realistic Mycroft). Sherlock Holmes is a character that was born from the brilliant mind of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

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Cheater, Cheater

"That'll be twenty pound seventeen, thanks," the cabbie states as I open the rear door. I grab my bag and come around to the cabbie's window to pay. I take a good look at the cabbie, making mental notes from what I see: _Picture on the dash says estranged from his wife but loves his kids. Clothes are freshly laundered, but have been out of style for three years. Keeping up appearances but not trying too hard. _I concentrate a little harder, trying to truly _see_. It's something I don't normally do, but he has me curious. And now I know why: _He's dying from an aneurism. _I hand him thirty pounds.

"Keep the extra," I insist warmly when he moves to get change. Stunned, the cabbie thanks me, and drives off. I turn around and take in my surroundings.

New Scotland Yard: My place of employment, and my home away from home.

As I walk up the steps, a gray-haired detective comes walking out.

"Kat! What're you doing here? I thought it was your day off," he shouts. I look up to see my boss, Greg Lestrade.

"Yeah, it kind of is. I'm here to see Sean. I'm surprising him. Even brought lunch," I laugh, gesturing to the bag in my hand, before adding "You see him lately?"

"Nah, I haven't seen him. But I'm pretty sure he's just in the office somewhere. We haven't had any cases today," he responds.

"Well, that's something to be thankful for."

"Yeah, it is. I'll see you at work tomorrow?" Lestrade asks.

"Yep!" I reply, popping the "p". Lestrade laughs.

"Alright, then. Enjoy your lunch!" He grins, waving as he walks away. I mock-salute back, and he laughs again.

I walk into the building and wave at Sargent Donovan, who's speaking with the officer at the reception counter. She waves me over.

"Headed to see Sean?" she asks, tilting her head to the side. I lift up my bag of food and nod.

"Yeah, how'd you guess?"

"You'll find him in forensics, in the empty offices in the back," she deadpans. Her eyes soften and she sighs. "Good luck," she adds sadly, before walking away. I look at the officer with whom she was speaking.

"What does _that_ mean?" I ask. She just shrugs. I head toward the stairs.

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I walk through the forensics department, saying hi to the people I know, and glaring at Anderson. He bothers me. Don't know why. Donovan bothers me the same way, but I hide it. She's nice enough.

I head to the back office where Donovan said Sean would be. I'm a bit confused as to why my boyfriend of three months would be in an empty office. A slight dread starts to fill me, but I shrug it off. I get to the door and raise my hand to knock, but something stops me. Instead of knocking, I turn the handle. Even being psy-intuitive, I am not prepared for what's waiting in that office.

Sean has his shirt unbuttoned and his pants and trousers around his ankles, leaning over a new girl who isn't wearing clothes at all. Before they can even react to the door being open, I drop the bag of food and bolt towards the stairs. I run down the stairs and out the door before I stop. I pull my phone out of my pocket and fire off a quick text.

**Molls, are you at work? I need your help. –KW**

I stand there bouncing on my feet, waiting for a response. A few seconds pass when my phone beeps at me.

**Yeah. Working in the Lab right now. You okay? -MH**

A slight wave of relief washes over me. Molly always knows how to make me feel better, and that's just what I need.

**Yeah. On my way. –KW**

I step over to the curb and hail a taxi. "Where to, miss?"

"St. Bart's Hospital, please"


	2. Meeting Sherlock Holmes

Meeting Sherlock Holmes

Molly and I meet in the cafeteria. She's grabbing coffee, black with two sugars. It has to be for someone else, because Molly always takes milk with her coffee and tea. I grab a cup of tea, two sugars with a dash of milk, and a powdered pastry. We walk in silence until we reached the lab. Much to my surprise, Molly isn't the only one working there. Sitting at one end of the table is a man with dark curly hair, wearing a black suit and white shirt. He's leaning over a petri dish with some blood in it, a dropper in his hand. He glances up at us for a second before going back to his work. His eyes are like ice, and I shiver. I start making my mental notes. _Working with blood, but he's clearly not a doctor. I think I've seen him around at work. Is he a detective? Wait, I really don't want to think about work right now._

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you," he says, putting his tools down to stand and get the coffee. _Goodness, he's tall. Probably six foot, at least. _He looks at her closely as he takes the mug. "What happened to the lipstick?" I look at Molly, my brows rising. Now that I look, she has a faint trace of lipstick on her lips, the kind of trace you get when you were wearing a fresh coat, but then wiped it off soon after. _He's observant. Definitely a detective._

She shifts awkwardly, glares at me, then smiles and turns to answer him.

"It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too," he pauses, looking for the right word, "small now." He turns and walks back to his seat, taking a sip from the mug. I catch a grimace on his face. Molly seems frozen. I nudge her in the side.

"Okay," she responds. I'm shocked, and getting angry.

"No, Molly. It's not okay," I retort. They both look at me like I've grown a second head.

"You don't need to take that sort of treatment from him. And you," I turn to the man sitting in front of me. "You need to be nicer to people. She got you coffee, got it exactly how you asked. And the thanks she gets is a grimace. I saw the look on your face when you took that first sip. If you want better coffee, get it yourself at an actual coffee shop. And when you asked her a question, she gave you a perfectly valid answer. And you insult her. And wipe that smirk from your face when I'm admonishing you!" I'm near shouting at this point. Molly turns to me with wide eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asks me. I just shake my head and turn back to the infuriating man.

"Bad day, I take it?" he asks. I glare.

"You're clearly a detective. You tell me," I fire back. He seems surprised, but the only indication is that his eyes widen a tiny bit.

"Kat, you don't want to do that," Molly squeaks from beside me. She seems stunned by my behavior. As well she should be. I'm usually much sweeter and happier than this.

"Why not?" I ask.

"He'll tell you your entire life story just by looking at you. He's probably already figured out everything about you," she whispers. The man interrupts.

"How did you know I'm a detective," he asks. The corners of his mouth are turned up just slightly, like he's amused.

"Tell me how you know I'm having a bad day and I'll tell you how I know," I respond, smirking. Molly sighs, giving up, and walks to a chair on the opposite side of the room. He turns to Molly instead.

"Molly, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," he asks. The nerve of him.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" I ask, irritated.

"He prefers to text," Molly answers. She turns to him. "Sorry, Sherlock. It's in my coat in my locker."

I'm about to yell at him again when I pause. _Sherlock?_

"Sherlock? _The_ Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" I ask. He turns back to me.

"Yes. You've heard of me, then?" he states, smiling a fake grin. _So THIS is the man Donovan's always calling "freak". THIS is the man Anderson hates more than he hates me. THIS is the man Lestrade's always talking about._ I dig my phone out of my pocket.

"Here, use mine," I say instead of answering.

"Oh, thank you," he takes the phone from me, glancing briefly at Molly.

"Sherlock, I'd like you to meet by best friend: Kat Wilson," Molly introduces me. "She's just-"

"Shhh!" I shush her. "I want to see if he's as good as his reputation says he is." Sherlock looks up from the phone at me.

"Oh? I have a reputation, do I?" he asks.

"That's for me to know and you to figure out how I know it," I reply. He looks back down at the phone, finishes the text, hands it back to me, and heads back to his seat. He looks back at me and starts his monologue.

"I know you're lower middle class or upper lower class. I know you were born and raised in London in a large family but you don't get along with them, possibly because of your temper, more likely because they don't agree with your religious preferences. I know you work in a café. And I know you share a flat with your boyfriend who you just caught cheating this morning," he finishes with a flourish. "Am I wrong?" Molly and I both stare at him in shock as he stands and grabs his coat. "No, I didn't think so." Molly starts laughing. "What?!"

"Actually, Sherlock. You're only right on two accounts," Molly responds. Sherlock looks back at her, stunned.

"Really?"

"Three," I respond quietly. They both look at me for an explanation. "Three accounts. That's actually why I came to see you, Molls. I need help finding a new flat." Sherlock looks perplexed.

"What? Why?!" Molly asks, concerned. "Don't tell me Sean…" she trails off. I nod. "Oh, Kat. You can stay with me until we find you a new flat, ok?" I nod again, and she hugs me.

"Thanks, Molls. You're the best," I whisper. A throat clears behind us. We turn to see Sherlock writing something down.

"Actually, if you'd like, come to this address tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock sharp. There's a flat available," he states, handing me a slip of paper. I feel a shock as his hand touches mine, but if he feels it, he's not letting on. He puts his coat on, and then wraps his scarf around his neck. "Sorry—gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He walks halfway through the door before he stops and leans back. He click-winks at me, then looks at Molly. "Afternoon." Molly half-heartedly waves back, to focused on me to give a proper goodbye. He glances in my direction once more, before turning and leaving.

Molly and I stand in silence for a moment, before I speak up.

"Riding crop?" We both start cracking up.

After laughing for a few minutes, we calm down enough to speak again.

"So, what's the address?" Molly asks. I look at the slip in my hand.

"Two two one Baker Street," I answer.


	3. The Flat

The Flat

New Scotland Yard, 7:30am

Walking into work feels… odd. It's Sean's day off, but I know he'll be in at some point to report me missing. He called last night. I ignored him.

I meet Lestrade in his office, and he closes the door. I called him last night from Molly's phone. Mine was shut off after the fifth call from Sean.

"Have a seat, Kat," Lestrade sighs, walking around his desk to his chair. He knows what I'm here for. He's going to argue like hell to keep me. It's not going to work. I sit in the chair in front of his desk just as he sits down in his.

"Before you even ask, yes, I need to do this, and no, there is nothing you can say or do to change my mind," I state. Lestrade just stares at me, his eyebrow raised.

"You're serious?" he asks. I nod.

"Something… personal… came up, and I need the time away," I sigh. "It's going to affect my job, and as much as I love working here, I would rather take the time away and get things settled than stay and be a burden to the force. I know it's going to be an inconvenience, but it's going to be an inconvenience if I stay, too. At least this way, I'm not putting anybody's lives at risk."

"You're sure?" he asks. He leans his elbows onto the desk and watches me, like this is an interrogation. I look him dead in the eye.

"Absolutely," I respond. We sit like this for a full minute before he sighs, turning towards the paperwork on his desk.

"Alright. If you insist you need this, then you need this," he says. He looks back up at me. "You're one of the best detectives we have in the Yard, you know that? I trust your judgment more than I trust my own sometimes." I nod.

"Thanks, boss."

"I'd say 'no problem', but then I'd be lying," he responds. He shakes his head. "Are you _sure_ you need to do this?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Just sign this," he says, handing me a piece of paper. I skim through it, making notes of certain lines. At the bottom is a line with an X. Below that is Lestrade's signature. I take the pen he offers, and I sign. I hand the paper and the pen back. "The door is always open if you want to come back."

"Yeah," I respond. I get up out of the chair and turn towards the door. Just as I'm about to open it and walk out, Lestrade calls me back.

"Oh, Kat? Sean called me this morning. Said you'd never made it home last night and you weren't answering his calls. He said he was going to file a missing person's report," he explains. I roll my eyes. "Know anything about that?" I sigh.

"Remember when I said that something personal had come up?" I ask. Lestrade nods. "Well, I'd be lying if I said he's only a part of it. He's the reason this is all happening. Can I ask a favor?"

"Sure," he responds. "What is it?"

"When you see him, tell him you saw me this morning." Lestrade nods. "If he asks anything, ask him what he was doing yesterday at lunch in the back office. Then tell him I know exactly what, because I saw it. Later, Lestrade."

I walk out of his office, and out of the building.

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"Thanks," I say as I step out of the cab and step up to pay the cabbie. I turn around and look at the building in front of me. Black door, gold lettering, knocker slightly askew. Next to the door for the flats is a quant, little café called "Speedy's". I look down at my watch: Five minutes to eight. I'm early. I look up to the windows on the second floor. The curtain in the window on the right is pulled back slightly, as if someone is peeking out. I walk to the door, square my shoulders and ring the buzzer. I wait for a second before I hear footsteps coming from what sounds like upstairs. The door opens, and a gentleman with sandy blond hair looks out at me.

"Hello, I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes," I greet. "Is he here?"

The man in front of me smiles and nods.

"C'mon in," he says, and steps out of the way. "We're just upstairs."

He leads me up the stairs and into the most… interesting apartment I've ever seen. There are papers and files lying haphazardly on a table, a painting of a skull on the wall, an _actual _skull on the mantelpiece.

"Sherlock," the man calls. "We've got a client."

"Oh, no," I state as Sherlock enters the room. "I'm not a client. I met Sherlock yesterday at Bart's Hospital. He gave me the address. Hello, Sherlock."

"Kat, glad to see you made it," he responds. "Oh, John, don't look so shocked." He goes to the table to start sorting some of the paperwork.

The man, John, seems absolutely shell-shocked. He looks back and forth between Sherlock and me. He turns to Sherlock, opens his mouth to say something, thinks better of it and shakes his head. I decide to alleviate some of his confusion.

"So, this flat you mentioned yesterday," I start, and Sherlock looks up at me. "I'm assuming this _isn't _it."

"You'd be correct. The flat that's available is upstairs," he starts explaining. "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, lives downstairs. You'll have to speak with her."

"Hello, boys," a voice comes from the door. I turn around to see an older woman. "Oh, and hello, dear. I'm Mrs. Hudson. Who might you be?" She asks me.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. My names Kat Wilson. Sherlock invited me over," I respond before pausing. Mrs. Hudson's eyes go wide. "He said you had a flat available?"

"Oh, did he?" she asks, laughing. "Well, I do have one available. It's right upstairs. I showed it to Sherlock when he first asked a month ago, but he refused. Said it was too far upstairs."

"Why am I not surprised," I sigh. Sherlock glares at me. "Oi! No glaring! It's common sense. Clients aren't going to want to climb a whole bunch of stairs just to see a detective." John and Mrs. Hudson look at me, stunned, while Sherlock just smirks.

"Yes. Yes, I thought so. My thoughts precisely," he responds. I just shake my head.

"Mrs. Hudson, could I take a look at the flat, please?" I ask. Mrs. Hudson smiles sweetly and nods.

"Sure, dear. Just let me get this hip moving," she responds, heading to the door. "Follow me, dear."

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The flat is perfect. Now I just need to get some furniture. As I walk downstairs to talk to Mrs. Hudson about rent, I catch a glimpse of Lestrade running down the stairs. I walk into Sherlock's flat.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He exclaims excitedly, twirling happily. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson responds. She sees me. "Oh, Kat. How did you like it?"

"It's brilliant, Mrs. Hudson," I answer. "Exactly what I need, thanks."

"Something cold will do. John, we need to go. Kat, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up," Sherlock finishes, grabbing a small leather pouch from the kitchen table before disappearing out the kitchen door, John following close behind. Mrs. Hudson and I look at each other.

"Look at him," she says, "dashing about. My husband was just the same. I'll make you that cuppa. You go and have a seat." She turns towards the door. I'm about to protest. "Just this once, dear."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," I sigh. I turn to sit and hear a throat clear from behind me. I turn back and see Sherlock standing there. He seems unsure, which is something I never thought I'd see.

"Yes?" I ask, raising my eyebrow.

"Would, would you like to come with us?" he asks. "Could always use an extra set of eyes, and you're much more clever than the usual idiots I work with." I stare.

"Thank you," I respond, "I think." I deliberate for a moment. "Sure, I'll come with. Crime scene, right?"

"Yes," he says, spinning on his heel. I follow him out.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea," I call. "I'll be back later about the flat."

John is standing near the door, waiting for Sherlock and me. Mrs. Hudson is standing near the bottom of the stairs.

"All three of you?" she asks. Sherlock reaches the front door but turns and walks back towards Mrs. Hudson.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them?" he says. "There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!" He takes her by the shoulders and kisses her on the cheek.

"Look at you, all happy," she says, smiling as he turns back towards the door. "It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent?" he asks. "The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" He walks out the front door and steps up to the curb. He hails an approaching cab.

"Taxi!"

The taxi pulls up alongside and the three of us get in. The car drives off.

**A/N: Next chapter, we get a bit more info on Kat's abilities. Wonder what they could be... ;P**


	4. The Lady in Pink and Post-Cognition

**A/N:** This chapter is much longer than the last few have been. I like to think that's good. That is good, right? _**Anyway, things that appear like this are things Kat's seeing in her mind. ** _That section might be a bit confusing. What's going on is she's seeing one thing in her head, and at the same time she's watching what Sherlock's doing. I hope that helps. I sort of like how that part flows.

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The Lady in Pink and Post-Cognition

We sit in silence for a long time. Sherlock's looking at his phone, John sits next to him and keeps glancing at me, and I'm in the seat across from them, looking out the window. Sherlock looks up from his phone to me then turns to John.

"Okay, John," he says, "clearly you've got questions."

"Yeah," John replies. "How come you're coming with us?" he asks, looking at me.

"Sherlock invited me," I respond. "Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?

"Sherlock tried to figure that out yesterday. Got most of it wrong," I say, and John's eyes widen while Sherlock's narrow, "but he _did_ try. Care to try again, Sherlock? I'm curious, though. How did you come to your deductions yesterday?"

"I'll start at the beginning, then. Lower middle class or upper lower class, judging by the clothing you wear and the state of your phone," he states. I pull out my phone for John to see. "Right or wrong?"

"Wrong," I answer. "I won the Lotto about a year back. I have money. I just don't like showing it off. Next?"

"Born and raised in London—judging by, again, your clothing and your friendship with Molly—in a large family—your contact book on your phone is full of cousins and other family members—with whom you don't get along—none of those people were in your call list, or your text messages. Possibly because of your temper—you telling me off yesterday for my treatment of Molly—more likely because of your religious preferences—you've got a pentagram on that necklace, but it's usually hidden under your collar," he continues. I pull my necklace out. "Right or wrong?"

"Pentacle," I respond instead of answering. Sherlock raises he brows. "It's a pentacle, not a pentagram. Pentagrams are drawn, pentacles are jewelry. Mostly right, but bits are wrong."

"Explain," he says.

"I was _not_ born and raised in London," I start, before switching to my native accent, "I was born and raised in America." I switch back to my English accent. "I'm quite good at acclimatizing. I _do _have a large family, and I _don't _get along with them. As for my temper, that's wrong, although I get the feeling you're going to test that. I'm usually very sweet and happy, but I was _not_ in the mood for how you treated Molly yesterday."

"You work in a café—there was powdered sugar on your sleeve, and you smelled of coffee," he states.

"Wrong. Completely. The powdered sugar was from a powdered pastry I'd gotten when I met Molly in the cafeteria when she was getting you coffee," I glare at him a little. "The coffee smell was from the lunch I'd brought with me to surprise my boyfriend. I sort of dropped everything on the floor. I hadn't even noticed that I got coffee splashed on me. Next."

At this point, John jumps in. For the most part, he's been sitting there, watching us with wide eyes.

"So, where _do _you work?" He asks. I sigh.

"Recently unemployed, actually," I answer. "Just put in my letter of resignation this morning before coming to see the flat."

"So where _did_ you work?" Sherlock asks. I smirk.

"You'll find that out soon enough," I answer cryptically. He sighs. "Next?"

"Sharing a flat with your boyfriend—middle class, don't get along with your family—who you'd just caught cheating that morning—you were angry over my treatment of Molly and your eyes were rimmed with red like you'd been trying not to cry," he finishes. John gasps. "Obviously not relevant now. You're looking for a new flat. And judging by the way your phone keeps buzzing in your pocket, you're ignoring him."

"Completely right," I respond. "Extraordinary. Not one hundred percent, but quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock responds.

"What do people normally say?" I ask. John and Sherlock share a look, before turning to me.

"'Piss off'," they say at the same time, grinning. I laugh.

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The cab pulls up and we get out, Sherlock stepping around to pay the cabbie. John is in the middle of telling me about the first time he and Sherlock met.

"And then he gets all impressed with himself and says 'Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything'," John says in a very good imitation of Sherlock.

"Wait, wait, and let me guess," I interrupt. "Harry's short for Harriet, isn't it?"

"Yes!" John says, laughing. "Oh, you should have seen the look on his face. He literally stopped dead in his tracks! Oh, I wish I'd taken pictures."

"Would've been funny to see," I respond, chuckling. We walk up to the police tape, and I see Sergeant Donovan standing there.

"Hello, freak," she calls. Sherlock's unaffected by it. I, on the other hand, am pissed.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock replies.

"Why?" Donovan asks.

"I was invited," Sherlock deadpans.

"_Why?_" Donovan asks again. At this point, I can she Sherlock's getting irritated with her.

"I think he wants me to take a look," he replies sarcastically. I roll my eyes.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" she asks. Sherlock lifts the tape and ducks underneath it.

"Always, Sally," he answers. He breathes in through his nose, catching something. I do the same. _Men's deodorant? Must be nice to have someone faithful. _"I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't…" she trails off, then looks at John and me. Her eyes widen when she sees me. "Kat?! What're you doing here? You _quit _this morning. And who's he?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson," Sherlock responds, turning to John. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan," he introduces them. "Old friend." This last line is so sarcastic, I can't help but roll my eyes. Then he turns to me. "Scotland Yard?"

"Told you you'd find out soon enough," I respond.

"A colleague?" Donovan interrupts. "How do _you_ get a colleague?" She turns to John. "What, did he follow you home?" At this point I am _beyond_ pissed.

"Listen, Sally," I say, and she turns to me. "You _are_ aware, as a member of Scotland Yard, that discrimination of _any_ kind is a crime, correct?" I ask sweetly. Her eyes widen, and she nods. "Good. Now, if I _ever_ hear you call Sherlock a freak, or even _imply_ it, I _will_ be in contact with the Chief Superintendent, and I will do _everything_ in my power to make sure you receive some form of discipline." I look her straight in the eye. "Am I understood?" She just nods. I smile as sweetly as I can, glad I've knocked her down a peg. "Good. Now could you please take us to the crime scene? Lestrade wanted Sherlock here for a reason, and any more delay could result in another victim."

Donovan just stares at me, wide-eyed. John looks like he wants to bust out laughing. Sherlock's eyes are widened just a tiny bit, not enough to see unless you make observations for a living. The corners of his mouth are turned up into a small smile as well. Sherlock lifts the tape up to let John and me through. Donovan turns and starts walking away, lifting her radio up.

"Sherlock's here," she says into the radio. "Bringing him in."

She leads us towards the house. Sherlock looks all around the area and at the ground as we approach. When we reach the sidewalk, Anderson comes out the door, dressed in the typical crime scene coveralls.

"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock greets. "Here we are again." Anderson looks at him in disgust.

"It's a crime scene," Anderson replies. "I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear," I respond as Sherlock takes another deep breath through his nose. I do the same. _Oh, goodness! That's the same deodorant that Donovan's wearing. He's cheating on his wife with Donovan?_ Anderson glances at me, and then does a double take.

"Kat?" he asks.

"Yep!" I reply, popping the "p". "And is your wife away for long?"

"Somebody at work told you that," he retorts. Sherlock scoffs.

"Your deodorant told us that," he says. Anderson looks confused.

"My deodorant?" he asks. Sherlock gets a quirky expression on his face.

"It's for men," I state. Anderson looks more confused.

"Well, of course it's for men!" he replies angrily. "_I'm_ wearing it!" Sherlock and I look at each other before turning back to Anderson.

"So's Sergeant Donovan," we say at the same time. Anderson turns and looks in shock at Donovan. Sherlock sniffs the air again. "Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May we go in?" he finishes. Anderson turns back and points at us, infuriated.

"Now, look: Whatever you're trying to imply…" he starts, before I cut him off.

"We're not implying _anything_," I say. Sherlock and I head past Donovan towards the door. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." I turn back and beckon John to come with us. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Anderson and Donovan both stare at me in horror. Sherlock smiles smugly, then turns and goes into the house. John walks past Donovan, and looks down to her knees, before following Sherlock inside. I look at them in disgust, shake my head and turn to head into the house. I see Lestrade putting on some coveralls and John doing the same. John and Lestrade are making small talk. Lestrade looks up at me and stops talking to John.

"Kat?" he says.

"Oh, for the love of…" I start. "Yes, Lestrade. It's me." I turn to Sherlock. "Why is everybody shocked to see me?" Sherlock just smirks.

"What're you doing here?" Lestrade asks as I start pulling on some coveralls. Sherlock speaks up.

"She's with me," he says, taking off his gloves.

"But what is she doing here?" Lestrade asks again. Sherlock picks up a pair of latex gloves.

"I _said_ she's with me," Sherlock replies. I roll my eyes and turn to Lestrade.

"I'm moving into the flat above his," I explain. Sherlock gives me a look. "I was coming back downstairs to speak with Mrs. Hudson about the rent just as you were running back to your car. Sherlock invited me along. Something about being 'more clever than the usual idiots'. Aren't you gonna put one on?" I ask Sherlock, pointing to a pair of coveralls. He stares at me blankly. "Right, sorry. Silly me, what _was_ I thinking?" Sherlock turns to Lestrade.

"So where are we?" he asks.

"Upstairs," Lestrade answers, picking up another pair of latex gloves.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Lestrade leads us up a circular staircase. He, John and I are wearing coveralls with white shoe coverings. John and Lestrade are both wearing latex gloves. Sherlock is putting his latex gloves on as we walk. My gloves are in the pocket of my coveralls, and I have a hair tie around my wrist, trying to pull my long, straight, brown hair into a ponytail.

"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade says.

"May need longer," Sherlock replies casually. I chuckle.

"Yeah, right," I say. John and Lestrade look at me curiously. "I've heard stories, mostly from you, Lestrade, and I've seen his work firsthand. He won't need more than the two minutes to get exactly what he needs." Lestrade turns back. I hear Sherlock chuckle. Lestrade continues.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards," he explains, glancing at me. "We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

"Oh, gods," I whisper.

Lestrade leads us into a room two stories above the ground floor. The room is empty of furniture, save for a rocking horse in the far corner. The Yard set up portable lighting so the entire scene could be seen. In the middle of the room, a woman's body is lying face down on the bare floorboards. She's wearing a bright pink overcoat and pink high-heeled shoes. We all walk into the room, Sherlock focusing on the corpse, John looking sad, and Lestrade looking expectantly at me. We stand there in silence for a time before Sherlock speaks up.

"Shut up," he says, looking at Lestrade. Lestrade looks back at him, startled.

"I didn't say anything," he replies.

"You were thinking," Sherlock states. "It's annoying."

Lestrade and John exchange a look of surprise and I just shake my head. Lestrade looks back at me while Sherlock starts making his deductions.

"Can you do it?" he asks quietly. John looks at us.

"I don't know, Lestrade," I respond in a whisper. "I don't know that I want to, either."

"Please, Kat?" he pleads. I look up at him, then back at Sherlock.

"Fine," I reply. "But you owe me." Lestrade lets out a sigh of relief.

"Thanks," he says.

I step away from John and Lestrade, over to the window. I turn to face the middle of the room, clasp my hands behind my back and close my eyes. I take a deep breath and concentrate. And then I see.

_**I'm looking out the window. A car pulls up. **_Sherlock is running his gloved hand along the back of her coat. He lifts his hand again to look at his fingers: Wet. _**I can't see it clearly, but I can tell there are two occupants: The murderer and Jennifer Wilson. **_Sherlock reaches into her coat pockets and finds a white folding umbrella in one of them. Running his fingers along the material, he then inspects his glove again: Dry. _**The driver gets out and goes around to Jennifer's door. He pulls it open and pulls a gun out from his waistband. He points the gun into the car. **_Putting the umbrella back into her pocket, Sherlock moves up to the collar of her coat and runs his fingers underneath it before once again looking at his fingers: Wet.

_**I can't hear anything yet, but I can tell he's threatening her to get out of the car. She does, shaking.**__**He steers her towards the door downstairs, and I hear footsteps and crying. **_Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock takes out a small magnifier, clicks it open and closely inspects the delicate gold bracelet on her left wrist: Clean. _**They finally make it up to the floor I'm on into the room where the body will be found. **_Then the gold earring attached to her left ear: Clean. _**The murderer is shrouded in a dark shadow, and I can't see him clearly. Jennifer is still crying, begging for her life. **_And then the gold chain around her neck: Clean.

_** "Oh," the murderer says, and I try to place his voice, "I'm not going to kill you. I'm just going to talk to you, and then you're going to make a choice."**_ Before moving on to look at the rings on her loft finger. The wedding ring and engagement ring are different: Dirty.

_** As I stand there, the murderer talks to Jennifer, getting into deeper and darker topics, finally settling on why she's a serial adulterer and why her marriage is unhappy. **_Carefully, Sherlock works the wedding ring off the woman's finger and holds it up to look at the inside of the ring: Clean. _**Her daughter, Rachel. When he finishes, he pulls two small bottles from his pockets and places them on the floor.**_

_** "One of these pills is poisoned. The other is not. Choose," he demands. Jennifer looks at him.**_ As Sherlock lowers the ring and slides it back onto the woman's finger, he has already reached a conclusion about the ring…

_** "And if I refuse?" she asks. The murderer smirks.**_

_** "Well," he responds, "you could take the fifty-fifty chance, or you could take a bullet to the head." **_The same conclusion I've made from the observations and what I'm seeing in my own head: Regularly removed. _**He holds the gun up and aims it at her. "Which will you choose?"**_

_** Jennifer looks at her murderer, and looks at the two bottles. She thinks for a moment, chooses a bottle, picks it up and unscrews the cap. **_Lifting his hands away from the woman, he looks down at her and makes his final deduction about her: Serial adulterer. _**She shakes the pill into her hand and looks up at the murderer.**_

_** "They **_**will**_** find you," she says, before taking the pill.**_

I bring myself back fully to reality, shaking my head.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asks Sherlock.

"Not much," Sherlock responds nonchalantly. He stands up and takes his gloves off. He pulls his mobile out from his pocket and begins typing. I unfold my hands and walk back towards John. He looks at me curiously.

"You okay?" he asks. Sherlock glances in our direction as I shake my head. It'll be a moment before I can speak again.

"She's German," calls Anderson, leaning in the doorway. "'Rache': It's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something…"

As he's speaking, Sherlock walks towards the door and begins to close it in Anderson's face.

"Yes," he says sarcastically, "thank you for your input." Slamming the door shut, he turns and walks back into the room, still typing on his phone.

"She _is _trying to tell us something, though," I say hoarsely. The three men look at me. John and Sherlock look confused. Lestrade looks at me closely. I clear my throat.

"What do you mean, she's trying to tell us something?" John asks at the same time Lestrade asks, "What did you see?" I shuffle uncomfortably.

"You're post-cognitive," Sherlock states. I look at him, surprised, and nod.

"Yes."

"Interesting," he says, trailing off. I try to turn the attention away from myself.

"So, I know she's not German," I start, "but where _is _she from? She's either not from London and is only visiting, or she _is_ from London and only just got back." Sherlock is still looking at his phone, smirking

"She's from out of town. Intended to stay for one night," he pauses and smiles smugly, clearly finding the information he's looking for, "before returning home to Cardiff." He puts his phone back in his pocket. "So far, so obvious." John and Lestrade are clearly confused.

"Sorry," John starts, "obvious?"

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade asks. Sherlock ignores him and looks at John.

"John, what do you think?" He asks.

"Of the message?" John asks back, baffled.

"Of the body," Sherlock replies. "You're a medical man."

John looks to Lestrade, silently asking permission. Lestrade nods, turning to the door and opening it.

"Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes," he orders. John walks over to the body and starts examining it. After a minute, he starts explaining the cause of death.

"Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs," he states.

"You know what it was," Sherlock says. "You've read the papers."

"What, she's one of the suicides?" John asks. "The fourth…?" Lestrade looks to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said," Lestrade said. "I need anything you've got." Sherlock and John both stand up.

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase," Sherlock explains. John looks around for the suitcase. I start concentrating on it. I can only guess it will be the same sickening shade of pink as her outfit.

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asks.

"Suitcase, yes," Sherlock responds, glancing at me. "She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake," Lestrade protests, "if you're just making this up…."

"Her wedding ring," Sherlock interrupts. "Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside—that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who _does_ she remove her rings for? Clearly not _one_ lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

John looks at him admiringly. I smile, but not for the reason they think. _Found it!_

"That's brilliant," he says. Sherlock looks over at him. "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asks.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock responds. John frowns.

"It's not obvious to me," he says. Sherlock pauses as he looks at the three of us.

"Dear God," he said. "What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He turns back to the body.

"Her coat," I say, smiling. I'm glad I'm sort of keeping up with him. He turns around again and looks at me. John and Lestrade do the same.

"Her coat," I repeat, starting to go over everything Sherlock observed. "It's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: Not just wind, _strong_ wind—too strong to use her umbrella." I pause to take a breath, then plow right on ahead. "We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. The only place where there has been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time is Cardiff." I turn to Sherlock. "That's what you were checking on your phone, wasn't it?" He nods, smiling. Lestrade doesn't seem at all fazed by my doing this; he's seen it too many times. John, on the other hand, is stunned.

"That's fantastic!" he exclaims. Sherlock turns to him.

"D'you know you do that out loud?" he asks in a low voice. John looks at him sheepishly.

"Sorry," he says. "I'll shut up."

"No," I respond. "It's… fine."

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asks. Sherlock spins in a circle, looking around the room.

"Yes, where is it?" he asks. "She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" Lestrade asks. Sherlock looks at him like he's oblivious.

"No," he replies sarcastically, "she was leaving and angry note in German! Of _course_ she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: Why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asks again. Sherlock points down by the back of her right calf.

"Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left," he explains. "She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: Could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He squats down by the woman's body and examines her legs more closely. "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?" I start walking out of the room, taking my gloves off as I go. I know that Sherlock is going to be running down these stairs in a minute, leaving to search for the case. I figure I'll meet him outside and save him some time.

"Suitcase!" I hear him call. "Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" John is following him quickly, but Lestrade is still up on the landing.

"Sherlock," he calls down, "there was no case!" Sherlock slows down, but is still making his way down the stairs. I'm at the front door by this point.

"But they take the poison themselves," he says. "They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks!" Lestrade calls back. "And…?"

"It's murder, all of them," Sherlock says. "I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings—_serial_ killings." He holds his hands up in front of his face in delight. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I _love_ those. There's always something to look forward to." John starts shaking his head.

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade shouts. Sherlock stops and calls back.

"Her case!" He states. "Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here, and they took her case. So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car." I walk out and into the middle of the street. I know he's close to where I got earlier when he first mentioned the suitcase. The next thing I hear is Sherlock shouting "_PINK!_", and then they're running towards and past me.

"Sherlock!" I shout, jogging to catch up to them. "Wait up!"

"No time," he calls back. I sigh.

"Sherlock Holmes, you make time to come listen to what I have to say!" I yell. "You get your skinny ass over here NOW!" He stops in his tracks and turns around, his eyes visibly wide even from this distance. John and I finally catch up to him, slightly out of breath. "Good. Now follow me."

"But-"

"No buts!" I cut him off.

**A/N:** If anyone can tell me how she knows where the case is, I'll give you a virtual hug! And I hate to ask, but reviews help keep me going, so: REVIEW! Please! =^u^=


	5. Dates and Arch-Enemies

**A/N: ** I love how she interacts with Mycroft. You'll love it, too. ...I hope...

Dates and Arch-Enemies

Seven minutes. It takes us seven minutes to find the pink suitcase. I lead Sherlock and John to a skip in a back alleyway. I walk right up to it, move a black plastic bag and pull the suitcase out.

"Ta-da!" I smirk. John looks at me in shock. Sherlock tilts his head in curiosity.

"Post-cognition _and _psychometry?" he asks. I nod. "What else can you do?" I shrug and hand him the case.

"I'll explain everything later," I respond. "Maybe. Right now, I'd like to get back to the flat and figure this case out."

I start to walk towards the main street, John following right behind me. I glance over my shoulder to see Sherlock watching me for a second, before he bends over and picks up the black plastic bag, wrapping the pink case in it, and moving to catch up with us. I raise my eyebrow.

"There _is_ a reason the murderer tried to dispose of it," he explains. I shrug.

"Oh, I know," I respond. "Just never thought you'd be one for vanity." He tilts his head to the side.

"Vanity?" he asks. I shrug again and turn back towards the street.

"The murderer had a valid reason for not wanting to be seen with the case," I explain. "It would tie him back to the murder. Someone would see it and think it strange. You, on the other hand, don't _have_ that reason. You're working on the case to find the murderer. You have a valid reason to be seen _with_ the case. And yet, you choose to hide it. Vanity."

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, then closes it. He has no rebuttal, and he knows it, his eyes widening slightly. John starts laughing just as we make it to the curb. I grin widely at Sherlock, before turning away.

"Taxi!"

The three of us get into the cab, John giving the cabbie the address. We ride in silence for most of the trip. Sherlock is sitting with the suitcase in his lap, looking out the window. John keeps throwing amused glances between me and Sherlock. I speak up.

"Stop pouting, Sherlock," I chide. "It's very childish." John chuckles.

"You haven't known him long enough to see the irony in that statement," he says, grinning.

"I am _not_ pouting and I am _not_ childish," Sherlock argues. I grin at him.

"Uh-huh," I say, "because I _totally_ believe that." Sherlock glares at me, and I laugh. "Know when you are beaten, Sherlock."

The three of us get out of the cab in front of 221 Baker ST. I step around to pay the cab as Sherlock and John walk towards the door, Sherlock striding right up the stairs to their flat. John stands at the door waiting for me. I head towards him.

"Thanks," I say, walking into the building. I head towards Mrs. Hudson's door. "You go on ahead, John. I need to finish some things up with Mrs. Hudson."

"Sure," he replies, nodding. "I'll see you later?" I nod.

"As soon as I'm done down here, if it's not too late," I answer. "I'll be up to see if Sherlock's figured anything else."

John walks up the stairs as I knock on Mrs. Hudson's door. A minute later, she opens it.

"Oh, hello Kat," she greets. "What can I do for you?"

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson," I reply. "I'm here about the rent."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," I call, walking out her door. It's been ten minutes since I last saw Sherlock and John.

"No problem, dear. It's all yours now," she responds. I grin. _Now I've just got to get some furniture for it, and I can move in._ I'm just about to head upstairs when I hear Sherlock and John coming down. John waves at me, looking miffed.

"We're headed out," he says. "Wanna come?"

"Sure," I nod, walking with them. We head out the door. "Where are we going?" I ask.

"Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here," Sherlock states. I look at John, confused.

"I'll explain in when we get… wherever it is we're going," he tells me before turning to Sherlock, asking "you think he's stupid enough to go there?" Sherlock smiles.

"No," he replies. "I think he's _brilliant_ enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught." I tilt my head to the side, frowning.

"Why?" John asks.

"Appreciation!" Sherlock answers excitedly. "Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John, Kat: It needs an audience." John and I share a look.

"Yeah," John says.

"Where've we seen _that_ before?" I finish sarcastically. Sherlock looks at us obliviously before spinning.

"This is his hunting ground," he says, "right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go." He puts his hands up on either side of his face like he's trying to focus his thoughts. "Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" he asks.

"Dunno," John replies. "Who?" Sherlock shrugs.

"Haven't the faintest," he answers. "Hungry?"

"Starving," I respond. John nods.

Sherlock leads us to a small restaurant. Walking inside, the waiter gestures to a reserved table at the front window.

"Thank you, Billy," Sherlock says, taking his coat off. He sits down on the bench seat at the side of the table and immediately turns sideways so he can watch out the window. Billy takes the 'Reserved' sign off the table, and John and I sit down. Sherlock nods to a building across the street. "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, is he?" John asks. "He'd need to be mad."

"He _has_ just killed four people," I respond, assuming he's talking about the murderer.

"…Okay," he responds as a man comes over to our table, clearly pleased to see Sherlock.

"Sherlock," he says, reaching out to shake Sherlock's hand. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free." He places a couple of menus on the table. "On the house, for you, your friend _and _your date." Sherlock turns toward John and me without looking away from the building across the street.

"Do you want to eat?" he asks us. I turn to the man.

"I'm not his date," I say. He's clearly ignoring me, pointing at Sherlock.

"This man got me off a murder charge," he says. Sherlock butts in.

"This is Angelo," he explains as the man, Angelo, offers his hand to John, who shakes it. "Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking." I bite my lip to keep from laughing. I see Sherlock glance at me quickly, but he turns back to the window before I can look at him.

"He cleared my name," Angelo says. I roll my eyes.

"I cleared it a _bit_," Sherlock responds. "Anything happening opposite?"  
"Nothing," Angelo answers before turning back to me and John. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You _did_ go to prison," Sherlock replies. I snort and three pairs of eyes turn towards me.

"Sorry," I say. Angelo turns to me.

"I'll get a candle for the table," he says. "It's more romantic."

"I'm not his date!" I snap, but it's no good. Angelo is already walking away. "I'm not your date," I mumble to Sherlock as he puts his menu down onto the table. John laughs.

"You may as well eat," he says. "We might have a long wait."

"You're not eating?" I ask as Angelo comes back.

"He doesn't eat when he's on a case," John answers. Angelo has a small glass bowl with a lit tea-light in it. He puts it on the table and gives me a thumbs-up—I glare back at him—before turning and walking away.

"That's stupid," I mutter. John and Sherlock both look at me. "Your body needs food. Not eating when you're on a case is like refusing to stop for gas when taking a road trip from one coast of the US to the other. You're only going to burn yourself out." Sherlock stares at me.

"What?" I ask. He blinks.

"Nothing," he responds, turning back to the window. I look at him for a minute longer, before sighing and turning to John, who is reading the menu.

"Is it later yet?" I ask. "Because I'm still a bit confused as to why we're here." John puts his menu down.

"Sherlock found out that Jennifer Wilson's phone was _not_ in her suitcase," he explains. "So he had _me_ send a text to her number from _my_ phone, giving the address for the building across the street. He seemed to be under the impression that the murderer has her phone. Whoever _does_ have the phone called me back, which is when we started heading here, which is when we met up with you."

"No _wonder_ you looked miffed when you came downstairs," I respond. I turn to Sherlock. "What was wrong with _your_ phone?" He doesn't turn away from the window when he answers.

"Didn't wanna use mine," he says. "Always a chance that the number will be recognized. It's on the website."

"Website?" I ask, tilting my head. "You have a website?" Sherlock nods.

"It's called 'The Science of Deduction'," he replies. John cuts in.

"He says he can identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," he says. I raise my eyebrows just as a waiter comes to take our orders.

We sit in silence while we wait, Sherlock still watching out the window. Time passes and the waiter comes back with our food. John and I tuck in, John with a pasta primavera and me with a lovely spaghetti and meatballs, with breadsticks on the side. Sherlock, unsurprisingly, hasn't ordered anything. I look at him pointedly, but he ignores me.

"At least have a breadstick," I insist. "Something, _anything_, to keep you from crashing and burning." Sherlock looks at me.

"Why do you care?" he asks. I shrug.

"Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'm a _decent human being_, and I care about my friends," I respond.

"Friends?" he questions, his eyebrows rising to hide behind his dark curls. I shrug again.

"You gave me the address to a lovely flat that's going to get me away from my cheating ex-boyfriend," I answer. "I consider that a friend. Could be worse, you could be my enemy." John looks up from his food. I can tell he's amused by the banter.

"Speaking of enemies," he starts, "Mycroft got ahold of me today, wanted to know how you were doing." Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Who's Mycroft?" I ask, genuinely curious. _Where've I heard that name before?_

"Sherlock's arch-enemy," John answers, smirking.

"People don't _have_ arch-enemies," I respond, turning to Sherlock. "In real life. There _are_ no arch-enemies in real life. It doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it?" Sherlock asks. "Sounds a bit dull. What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?"

"Friends," I answer. "People they know; people they like; people they don't like. Family. Girlfriends, boyfriends, exes…"

"Yes, well, as I was saying," he says, "dull. He's my older brother."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" I ask. John snorts.

"Girlfriend?" Sherlock repeats. "No, not really my area."

"Hmmm," I hum, thinking. A funny thought strikes me, and I giggle. "So you and John, then?" John starts choking on his food.

"We are NOT a couple!" he shouts when he stops coughing. "Why does _everyone_ think we are?" I shrug.

"I don't," I respond. "Just thought it'd be funny to see your reaction. Which it was." I grin widely, hearing Sherlock chuckle.

"I consider myself married to my work," Sherlock states. I groan.

"Oh, gods," I mutter, "you're one of _those_." He turns to me, one eyebrow raised, and I laugh. He turns back to the window.

"Look across the street," he says. "Taxi." _Taxi?_ "Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out." I look to the taxi. There's a man in the back seat, looking through the side windows. I look ahead of him to see the cabbie. _No way_. Sherlock starts thinking out loud. "Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. _Is_ it clever? _Why_ is it clever?"

"That's him?" John asks.

"Don't stare," Sherlock snaps. John looks at him.

"_You're _staring," he responds, put out.

"We can't _all_ stare," Sherlock says, getting to his feet. He grabs his coat and scarf and heads for the door, John following right on his heels. I watch from my seat as Sherlock nearly gets hit by a car and the taxi pulls away. Sherlock and John stand there for a second, before Sherlock leads them another way.

"Can I get you anything else, miss?" The waiter asks. I shake my head, standing up and grabbing my coat. "Oh, then have a good night, and come back soon." He sounds hopeful for that last part.

"Thanks," I respond, walking towards the door. I start walking toward Baker St., not even realizing I'm heading that way. I'm too busy thinking about the taxi, and I don't see the black car pull up beside me till a tall man in a suit steps out of it. I stop short as he pulls the rear door open.

"Miss Wilson," he says. "My employer would like a word with you. If you'd just get in the car, he really hates to wait."

I peer into the back of the car and see a woman in black with wavy brown hair texting on her mobile. I look back to the man holding the door open.

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" I ask. He shakes his head. "Thought not."

I get into the car.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

We ride in silence for the entire trip. We pull into an almost-empty warehouse. A man in a suit is standing in the middle of the vast space, leaning nonchalantly on what I can tell is _not_ a cheap umbrella. _He must be the employer. _He watches as the car stops and I get out. The man gestures to a straight-back armless chair with his umbrella.

"Have a seat, Kat," he says. His voice has an aristocratic lilt to it. _Royalty or high up in the Government. Going with Government. Royalty wouldn't have any reason to meet me in a place like this._ I take the chair and turn it around so it's facing away from him, then sit in it backwards. I can tell this annoys him.

"Any reason you couldn't have called me?" I ask. "I've got a phone. Or you could have taken me to a café. I like cafes. They serve tea."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes," he responds, "one learns to be discreet, hence this place. Must you sit in that way?" His voice turns a bit stern towards the end.

"Well, I don't wanna turn around," I answer, "if _that's_ what you're asking." He looks at me curiously.

"You don't seem very afraid," he says. I shrug.

"You don't seem very frightening," I retort.

"How do you figure?" he asks.

"I can tell you're Government," I explain. "Judging by your suit and umbrella, I'd say very high up in the Government. And I can tell you don't like to do the dirty work yourself except when you absolutely have to. You sent people in a car to fetch me and bring me here. Speaking of here, you said this place was so you could avoid Sherlock's attention, and if you were to hurt me, he'd know about it, which would be counter-intuitive. So no, I'm not afraid of you."

He looks stunned, but gets over it quickly. _Probably not used to ordinary people deducing him like that. Just Sherlock. That means he's extremely intelligent and has some connection to Sherlock. _The man clears his throat.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" he asks sternly.

"I don't have one," I answer. "I barely know him. I met him yesterday."

"Hmm," he hums, "and since yesterday, you've moved into the flat above his and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" I snort. He's clearly trying to frazzle me. It's not going to work.

"Oh, tomorrow, actually," I gush happily. I can't help myself. He's asking, practically _begging_ for it. "We're all set to get _married_ and _everything_! I think it's a bit rushed, but we don't have a lot of time left. Not with the little one on the way." I pat my stomach, like I'm pregnant. His eyes widen. I snicker. "Gotcha! I can't believe you started to _believe_ me. Who _are_ you?" He clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable with my little act. _Serves you right!_

"An interested party," he answers.

"Interested in Sherlock?" I ask. "Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him," he replies. "How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having." I frown, thinking about John.

"And what's that?" I ask.

"An enemy," he answers. I tilt my head.

"An enemy?" I ask.

"In _his_ mind, certainly," he answers. "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his _arch_-enemy. He does love to be dramatic." I look around the warehouse.

"Well," I reply sarcastically, "thank the Goddess _you're _above all that." _So _this_ is Mycroft._

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" he asks.

"I could be wrong—I'm usually not, but I _could_ be this once—but I think that's none of your business," I respond.

"It _could_ be," he answers ominously. I shake my head.

"It _really_ couldn't." Mycroft takes a notebook from his inside pocket. He opens it and consults it as he speaks.

"If you_ do_ move into, um… two hundred and twenty-one Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way," he offers, closing the notebook and putting it away.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because you're not a wealthy woman," he responds. I snort.

"Well, then," I say, "you _clearly _have not done _all_ your research, because I certainly _am_ wealthy. I just don't flaunt it like _some_ people do." I look pointedly at his suit and umbrella. "If it's information you want, as long as it's not _too _personal, I'd be happy to oblige. And if you're _insistent_ about paying me, wire it to Sherlock's account instead. If you're so worried about him." I've stunned him again. I get up out of the chair and turn towards the car. "Have a good night, Mycroft."

The woman from the car is now standing outside it. She's still looking down at her phone.

"I'm to take you home," she grumbles. "I feel like a cabbie." Suddenly, I hear Sherlock's words from earlier in my head: _Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?_

I pull my phone out of my pocket and fire a quick text to Sherlock.

**The cabbie did it. –KW**

"Address?" the woman asks. I look up at her.

"Two two one Baker Street," I answer, getting into the car.


	6. Capsules and Cabbies

Capsules and Cabbies

The ride back to Baker Street is agonizing. A pit is forming in my stomach and I'm anxious to get there. The woman sitting next to me takes no notice, still concentrating on her phone. As we pull up, I open the door and dash up the stairs, dodging officers as they head out. I get through the door to find John and Lestrade talking. Lestrade picks up his coat. Neither notice me.

"Why did he do that?" he asks John. "Why did he have to leave?" John shrugs.

"He said he got a text from Kat, and he had to meet her somewhere," John answers. "Said it was important." My jaw drops.

"That _idiot_!" I yell, causing both men to jump. I turn on my heel and head back towards the street. I stop on the sidewalk and close my eyes, focusing.

_** "Where are we?" I hear Sherlock ask.**_

_** "You know every street in London," the cabbie answers. "You know**_** exactly**_** where we are."**_

_** "Roland-Kerr Further Education College," Sherlock responds. "Why here?"**_

My eyes snap open and I head to the curb and hail a taxi.

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College, please," I say as the taxi pulls up. "And there'll be an extra tenner in it for you if you get me there quickly."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

We pull up to two identical buildings, and I pay the cabbie. I look around for a moment before heading into the building on the right, knowing that that's where the cabbie will take Sherlock. I don't see another car in the area, so I know I've beaten them here. I walk towards the room they'll be headed to, open the door and take a seat at one of the tables. I leave the lights off.

I text John, let him know to keep an eye on the Mephone website that was on Sherlock's laptop. And then I wait.

After a few minutes, I hear footsteps coming down the hallway towards the room I'm in. I hear the door open, see a shadow holding the door and see Sherlock's shadow enter the room. _Showtime._ The cabbie walks over to the switches on the wall and turns on the lights. I blink.

"Oh, sorry," the cabbie says. "I didn't realize anyone would be here."

"Kat?" Sherlock asks, surprised. "What are you doing here?" I gesture around the room.

"You told John you were meeting me somewhere," I respond, glaring at him. "You told him it was _important_. Well, here I am. I figured I'd get here early."

"How did you know we'd come here?" The cabbie asks. I shrug.

"I'm just special like that," I answer. I take a closer look at the cabbie and recognize him. "You're the cabbie from yesterday morning! The one who dropped me off at the Yard." He looks at me in surprise.

"You're the one who gave me an extra tenner," he responds. "Well, how's that for coincidence." I raise my eyebrows as Sherlock looks around the room. "I _was _gonna make you the next, instead of that _pink_ lady," he says with a sneer, and I feel a flash of anger go through me. It's not my own. He turns to Sherlock. "Well, what do you think?" Sherlock shrugs. "It's up to you. You're the one who's gonna die here."

"No, I'm not," Sherlock replies.

"No, he's not," I say at the same time. The cabbie stares at us blankly.

"That's what they all say," he says. He gestures to the table I'm sitting at. "Shall we talk?" He pulls out a chair across from me and sits down. Sherlock walks over and pulls out the chair next to me so he's opposite the cabbie, and sits down. He sighs dramatically and I roll my eyes at him.

"Bit risky, wasn't it?" he asks the cabbie. "Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not _that_ stupid. And Mrs. Hudson will remember you."

"You call that a risk?" the cabbie scoffs. "Nah." He reaches into the left pocket of his cardigan. "_This_ is a risk."

He takes out a small glass bottle and puts it on the table between him and Sherlock. The bottle has a screw top, and inside is a single large capsule. I stiffen, and Sherlock glances at me.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Nope," I respond. "This is how he kills them. He's going to poke fun at you because you don't see it yet." I pause as the cabbie looks at me, his eyes wide. "He's got a second bottle, an _identical_ bottle in his other pocket." The cabbie's eyes widen further.

"How-?" he asks.

"Special," I answer. I see Sherlock roll his eyes. The cabbie pulls the second bottle out and places it next to the first bottle. I lean back and fold my arms just as the cabbie leans forward. He looks at me, shakes his head and turns to Sherlock.

"Ooh," he says, "you're going to love this."

"Love what?" Sherlock asks. The cabbie sits back again.

"Sherlock 'olmes," he says, missing the H. "Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours: Your fan told me about it." _Fan? That doesn't sound good._

"My _fan_?" Sherlock asks. The cabbie ignores him.

"You are brilliant," he says. "You _are_. A proper genius. 'The Science of Deduction'. Now that is _proper _thinking. Between you and me sitting 'ere, why can't people think?" He looks down angrily. "Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just _think_?" He looks back up and his eyes meet Sherlock's. Sherlock looks back at him for a moment, his eyes narrow. He makes a realization about the cabbie.

"Oh, _I_ see," he says sarcastically. "So you're a proper genius, _too_."

"Don't look it, do I?" the cabbie asks. "Funny little man drivin' a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you _ever_ know." Sherlock stares at the cabbie for a second, and then looks down at the bottles on the table.

"Okay, two bottles," he says. "Explain." I cut in.

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle," I say. Sherlock raises his eyebrows at me. "One pill is full of poison, the other's nothing. He's going to make you choose one, and whichever one you choose, he'll take the other. You'll both take the pills at the same time, together. Both bottles are identical, and he knows which is which."

"Course _I_ know," the cabbie interrupts angrily. He's upset I gave the explanation.

"But I don't," Sherlock responds.

"Wouldn't be a game if _you_ knew," the cabbie replies. "You're the one who chooses. I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't." Sherlock looks down at the bottles, concentrating properly. "Didn't expect _that_, did you, Mr. 'olmes?"

"This is what you did to the rest of them," Sherlock responds. "You gave them a choice."

"Yes," I say sadly, feeling the weight of their deaths. "Sir Jeffrey Patterson, James Philimore, Beth Davenport and Jennifer Wilson. All four victims. All the same choice."

"And now I'm givin' _you_ one," the cabbie says. Sherlock looks up at him. "You take your time. Get yourself together," the cabbie encourages, licking his lips in anticipation. I grimace. "I want your best game."

"It's not a _game_," Sherlock argues. "It's _chance_."

"I've played four times," the cabbie retorts. "I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this… _this_… is the move." With one hand, he slides one bottle across the table towards us. He licks his top lip as he pulls his hand back. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one." We sit for a minute, Sherlock inspecting the bottles. "You ready yet, Mr. 'olmes? Ready to play?"

"Play _what_?" Sherlock asks, exasperated. "It's a fifty-fifty chance."

"You're not playing the numbers, Sherlock," I answer. "You're playing _him_." The cabbie nods.

"Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill?" he asks. "Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a _triple_-bluff?"

"Still just chance," Sherlock says.

"Four people in a row?" the cabbie fires back. "It's not just chance."

"Luck," Sherlock insists.

"It's genius," the cabbie replies. "I know 'ow people think." Sherlock and I both roll our eyes. "I know 'ow people think _I _think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead." Sherlock looks exasperated. "Everyone's so stupid—even you." Sherlock looks at him sharply. "Or maybe God just loves me." Sherlock straightens up and leans forward, his hands folding in front of him on the table.

"Either way, you're _wasted_ as a cabbie," Sherlock says. He lifts his folded hands in front of his mouth and stares at the cabbie intently. "So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?" The cabbie nods down to the bottles.

"Time to play," he says. Sherlock unfolds his fingers. His hands steeple in front of his mouth.

"Oh, I _am_ playing," he responds. "This is _my_ turn." I can see the rapid-fire explanation coming. _Let's see if he sees what I saw yesterday._ "There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you." _Okay, hadn't seen that. _"Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children." _Did see that._ "The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old, but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them." The cabbie looks away from Sherlock, and I feel a bit of sympathy for the man. "Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it _still_ hurts." He holds his pointer finger up. "Ah, but there's more." The cabbie looks at Sherlock again as Sherlock points at the cabbie. "Your clothes: Recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least…three years old?" _Saw that._ "Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's _that_ about?"

"He's dying," I cut in. Both men look sharply at me. "Aneurism." The cabbie taps himself on the side of the head.

"Right in 'ere," he says. "Any breath could be my last." Sherlock frowns.

"And because you're dying," he says, "you've just murdered four people."

"I've _outlived_ four people," the cabbie corrects indignantly. "That's the most fun you can 'ave on an aneurism."

"Or you could visit your kids," I argue quietly. The cabbie looks down. Sherlock looks thoughtful.

"You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter," he says. "Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator."

"Oh," the cabbie sighs. He looks up at Sherlock. "You _are_ good, ain't you?"

"But _how_?" Sherlock asks.

"When I die," the cabbie answers, "they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money driving cabs."

"Or serial killing," Sherlock interrupts.

"You'd be surprised," the cabbie responds.

"Surprise me." The cabbie leans forward.

"I 'ave a sponsor," he says.

"You have a what?" Sherlock asks.

"For every life I take, money goes to my kids," the cabbie explains. "The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think." I shake my head in disgust as Sherlock frowns.

"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?" Sherlock asks.

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock 'olmes?" The cabbie fires back instantly. They look at each other for a moment before the cabbie turns to look at me. "He didn't say anything about _you_, though." He turns back to Sherlock. "You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man…and they're so much more than that." Sherlock's nose twitches.

"What d'you mean, _more_ than a man?" he asks. "An organization? What?"

"There's a name no one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either," the cabbie says before nodding to the two bottles. "Now enough chatter. Time to choose." Sherlock looks down at the bottles again, his eyes moving from one to the other.

"What if I don't choose either?" Sherlock asks. "I _could_ just walk out of here." The cabbie sighs in disappointment. He lifts up a pistol and points it at Sherlock for a moment, before moving his arm to point it at me. I take a close look at the gun and instantly relax.

"You can take your fifty-fifty chance," the cabbie says, "or I can shoot your _girlfriend_ in the head." I see Sherlock smiling calmly. "Funnily enough, no one's ever gone for the gun."

"I'll have the gun, please," I say, surprising both men.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asks.

"Definitely," I answer confidently. "The gun."

"You'd really take a bullet to the head for this man?" the cabbie asks, incredulous.

"The gun," I respond. The cabbie grimaces slightly and slowly squeezes the trigger. A small flame bursts out of the end of the barrel. I smile smugly.

"I worked for Scotland Yard," I say. "It's not really your M.O. anyway. You take people's lives by giving them poison, not a bullet to the head. Besides that, the weight was off: If you'd been holding a _real_ gun, it would've put more of a strain on your arm. And, you can clearly tell—if you're paying _any_ attention at all—that there is no magazine. It doesn't come out." I pause, smiling. "I _know_ a real gun when I see one." I see Sherlock smiling smugly. The cabbie lifts the gun and releases the trigger. The flame goes out.

"None of the others did," the cabbie says.

"Clearly," Sherlock says, bored. "Well, this has been _very_ interesting. I look forward to the court case." We both stand up and walk towards the door.

"Just before you go, did you figure out…" the cabbie starts to say. Sherlock stops at the door and half turns towards the cabbie. "…Which one's the good bottle?"

"Of course," Sherlock answers. "Child's play."

"Well," the cabbie asks, "which one, then?" I open the door a little and Sherlock looks at me. I shake my head.

"Don't do it," I whisper.

"Which one would you 'ave picked," the cabbie asks, and Sherlock looks back at the cabbie, "just so I know whether I could have beaten you?"

"Sherlock," I say and Sherlock looks at me again, "don't do it. He's manipulating you, and someone's going to _die_ because of it." I shiver. "_Please_, don't do it." The cabbie chuckles.

"Come on," the cabbie goads. "Play the game." Sherlock turns to me. He looks past me and closes the door. He turns and walks slowly back towards the cabbie. When he gets there, he reaches out and quickly picks up the bottle closest to the cabbie. He walks back towards me, and I feel a sense of dread.

"Oh," the cabbie says. I look over to him and see him looking at the other bottle. "Interesting." He picks the other bottle up as Sherlock looks down at the bottle in his hand. The cabbie opens his bottle and tips the capsule out into his hand. He holds it up and looks at it. Sherlock is examining his own bottle closely. "So what d'you think?" The cabbie looks up at Sherlock. "Shall we? _Really_, what do you think?" The cabbie glances at me, smirking, before turning back to Sherlock. "Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?" Sherlock looks up at me and I shake my head. _Don't do it._ "I bet you get bored, don't you?" Sherlock looks sharply at the cabbie. "I _know _you do. A man like you…." Sherlock twists the lid of his bottle, opening it. "…So clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" Sherlock takes the capsule out of the bottle and holds it between his finger and thumb, raising it to the light to examine it more closely. "Still the addict." Slowly Sherlock lowers the pill again, holding it at eye level. "But this…_this_ is what you're really addicted to, innit?" Sherlock looks up at me over the top of the capsule. _Don't do it._ "You'd do anything…anything at all…to stop being bored." Slowly, Sherlock begins to move the capsule closer to his mouth. The cabbie matches the movement. "You're not bored now, are you?" I close my eyes. I can't watch this. "Innit good?"

_Bang!_

I hear the gunshot and my eyes snap open. I look at Sherlock to see him dropping his capsule in surprise before turning towards the window. Seeing he's okay, I turn to the cabbie, who falls to the floor. I run to him and kneel down beside him, taking his hand. I hear Sherlock walk up behind me. He kneels down on the other side of the cabbie, one of the capsules in his hand.

"Was I right?" he asks. I look at him in disbelief. "I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?" The cabbie doesn't reply. Sherlock angrily throws the capsule across the room and stands up. "Okay, tell me this: Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me—my 'fan'. I want a name." I glare at Sherlock.

"No," the cabbie gasps.

"Sherlock," I warn. Sherlock ignores me.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you," Sherlock says. "Give me a name." The cabbie shakes his head. Sherlock grimaces angrily, lifting his foot and putting it onto the cabbie's shoulder, and the cabbie gasps. "A _name. Now._" I jump up from where I was kneeling.

"_Sherlock_!" I shout, pushing him off the cabbie. He stumbles back. "Back off! The man is _dying on the floor_, and you're _torturing _him!" Sherlock stares at me, stunned. I turn back, kneel down and take the cabbie's hand again. "You're okay, I've got you," I whisper. I look at him meaningfully. "You don't have to say the name, just think it. Just _think_, okay?" The cabbie nods, and I _hear_ him.

_Moriarty._

"Moriarty?" I whisper, just loud enough for only the cabbie to hear. He nods, and his eyes widen. "Alright, now you just relax. Relax, and remember happy times. Before your wife took the kids, before everything _bad_ happened. Just relax and remember." The cabbie closes his eyes, remembering. I catch glimpses of what he's seeing, but I mentally pull back. Those are personal. He smiles slightly just as he goes limp. _He's gone._ Tears start forming in my eyes.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The police and paramedics come. The police separate Sherlock and me. We are both taken to different ambulances. The police question me, but I refuse to speak. I hear one of the paramedics behind me mention "shock", and suddenly there's a blanket around my shoulders and most of the officers around me leave. I ask for Lestrade. They tell me he's on his way.

Five minutes later, I hear footsteps heading my way. I look up and see Lestrade.

"You okay?" he asks. I stare at him blankly. "Yeah, thought so. What happened?" I talk. I tell Lestrade—almost—everything. I leave out the bit with Sherlock hurting the man at the end, and I leave out the name. Just _thinking _that name makes me cold. There's real _evil_ attached to it.

When I finish explaining, Lestrade stands there for a minute before speaking again.

"I know you're not okay _now_," he says, "but will you _be_ okay?" I nod.

"I'll text Molly as soon as I leave here," I say. "I'll let her know what happened, and that I hope she's up for ice cream tonight." I manage a grin towards the end, and Lestrade chuckles.

"Chocolate ice cream?" he asks.

"Yep!" I answer, popping the "p". He laughs.

"Alright," he says. "So long as you'll be okay." I nod.

"Not the worst thing I've ever been through," I respond. He nods.

"Alright," he says. We stay silent for a moment before I speak up.

"Go talk to Sherlock," I suggest. "He might have already figured out who the shooter is." Lestrade nods before walking away, heading toward Sherlock. I hear Sherlock ask about the blanket he's wearing. Lestrade says something about "shock" and Sherlock argues. Lestrade mentions something about the guys wanting to take pictures. I look a distance away from where Sherlock and Lestrade are, and—sure enough—there are five officers with their mobiles out. I chuckle.

"Are you alright, Miss?" I hear a familiar voice ask, and I stiffen. I look up to see Sean, but he doesn't seem to recognize me at first. I just shake my head and look down, missing his eyes widening. "_Kat_?!" I look back up. "What're you doing _here_? Do you have _any _idea how _worried_ I've been? You never came home last night and you've been ignoring my calls! I thought something had _happened_ to you! What _happened_?!" I just stare at him blankly. _I'm _really_ going to need that ice cream tonight_. "Kat?"

"I'm really _not_ in the mood to deal with you right now," I say. He looks offended.

"_Deal_ with me?" He shouts. "I'm your _boyfriend_, and you're not in the mood to _deal_ with me? What the _hell_ is _wrong_ with you?!" I shrug.

"Ex-boyfriend, actually," Sherlock's voice says, startling both me and Sean. Sean looks at Sherlock incredulously.

"Who're you, mate?" Sean asks. "Mind your own business." Sean turns back to me, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. "We're going home." I pull my arm back and glare at him. I've had enough.

"_I_ am not going _anywhere_ with _you_!" I snap venomously, and both Sean _and_ Sherlock take a step back. "_You_ are _not_ the boss of me, you do _not_ tell me what to do or where to go and you are _not _my boyfriend! Not anymore." Sean looks hurt.

"_Why_?!" he asks. I scoff.

"Why don't you ask the _new girl_ why?" I fire back, taking a step forward. He stiffens and takes another step back. "I _saw_ the both of you, yesterday morning. I _saw_!" I take another step forward. "If I _ever_ see you again," I threaten, my voice low, "if you _ever_ even _think_ of speaking to me—_ever_—I can _guarantee_ your next girlfriend won't _have_ to wonder if you're cheating on her." I smile brightly, and Sean's eyes widen in horror. "Is that understood?" Sean nods quickly. "Good. Now: Go. Away." Sean turns and walks—runs—away from the two of us. I sigh. Sherlock shuffles nervously next to me, and I look at him.

"Remind me to _never_ piss you off," he says. I raise my eyebrow at him, and he looks away.

"Maybe you were right," I respond, and he looks back at me, confused. "Maybe I _do_ have a bit of a temper." I crack a smile and he smirks back at me. "C'mon, let's get out of here. I could really use some chick flicks and ice cream." Sherlock grimaces at the thought and I laugh. We walk towards the police tape where John is waiting. Sherlock takes the blanket from around his shoulders and bundles it up. He tosses it into the open window of a police car. I do the same. When we get to the police tape, Sherlock holds it up so I can duck under, then ducks under it himself.

"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills," John says when we walk up. _He looks guilty_. "Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful." _Why does he look guilty?_ Sherlock looks at him for a moment before speaking.

"Good shot," he says quietly. _Oh. _That's_ why he looks guilty._

"Yes," John replies. "Yes, must have been, through that window."

"Well," I say. "_You'd _know." Sherlock nods.

"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers," he says. "I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." John clears his throat and looks around nervously.

"Are you alright?" I ask him.

"Yes, of course I'm alright," he answers.

"Well," Sherlock responds, "you _have_ just killed a man."

"Yes, I…." he trails off. "That's true, innit?" John smiles and Sherlock watches him carefully. "But he wasn't a very _nice_ man." Sherlock nods in agreement.

"No," he says. "No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie," John continues. Sherlock chuckles and turns to lead us away.

"That's true," he says. "He _was_ a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here. We had a head start and Kat _still_ beat us!" John giggles and Sherlock smiles.

"Stop!" I reprimand. "Stop, you can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"

"John's the one who shot him," Sherlock argues. "Don't blame me."

"Keep your voice down!" John hisses as we walk past Donovan. "Sorry—it's just, um, nerves, I think."

"Sorry," Sherlock calls to Donovan. I can tell he's not. John clears his throat again.

"You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?" he asks Sherlock. Sherlock looks at him.

"Course I wasn't," he replies, and I roll my eyes. "Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't," John argues. "If Kat had said that, I _might_ believe it. It's how you get your kicks. You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asks.

"Because you're an idiot," I cut in. Sherlock grins at me before forcing the smile down.

"Dinner?" he asks.

"Starving," John answers. I don't answer, and they both look at me.

"Can't," I reply. "I need to meet up with Molly." I turn to Sherlock. "Chick flicks and ice cream, remember?" He grimaces and John laughs. Sherlock turns to John and starts telling him about this Chinese place and how you can tell a good Chinese place by the bottom third of the door handle. While they're talking, a car pulls up, and Mycroft gets out. John and Sherlock both look up at him, John surprised, Sherlock annoyed. I head straight for him.

"Hello, Mycroft," I greet. "Lovely to see you again." He nods his head at me before turning to Sherlock, speaking pleasantly.

"So, another case creaked," he says. "How very public spirited…thought that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you," Mycroft replies. He pauses. "However, that is _not_ why I'm here. I came to speak with Miss Wilson." He turns to me. "I must apologize for my behavior earlier. I am merely concerned for his well-being, though he has a hard time believing it. This petty feud between us is simply childish, and people will suffer…." He turns back to Sherlock. "And you know how it always upset Mummy." Sherlock looks at him angrily.

"_I_ upset her?" he asks. "_Me_?" Mycroft glowers at him. "It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft. It wasn't _me_ that started this 'petty feud'."

"How _did_ it start, anyway?" John asks. Mycroft sighs.

"It started with a _girl_ of all things," he says. "Fifteen years ago, mother and father took us on a trip. I'd just graduated school, and we were celebrating my top honors. Sherlock met a girl there, and it _changed_ him. He'd always been good at deducing people, but one conversation with _her_ and he became _obsessed_ with detective work. He seems to think she'll find him one day, and they'll live _happily ever after_." Mycroft sneers the last three words and Sherlock glares at him.

"Good evening, Mycroft," Sherlock says, turning away. "Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic." He walks away, and John starts to follow.

"Have a good night, Mycroft," John calls, waving. I stand there for a moment, watching them go.

"I'd better go," I say, turning to Mycroft. "Thank you for the apology. Have a good night." I turn to walk away, heading in the same direction as John and Sherlock. "Sherlock, John! Wait up!" I run after them as they stop and turn to wait for me.

"So," John says when I catch up. "Dim sum." Sherlock nods.

"Mm," he hums. "I can always predict the fortune cookies." I shake my head.

"No you can't," John argues. I jump in.

"I can," I say. They both look at me. I start listing my gifts off one by one, counting them on my fingers. "Post-cognition, Psychometry, Pre-cognition, Telepathy and Psychokinesis. Four of which I've used today."

"Post-cognition and Psychometry were earlier today in Lauriston Gardens," Sherlock says, trying to piece it all together. "Pre-cognition? So _that's_ how you got here before us." I nod. "Telepathy?" He asks.

"Moriarty," I answer. He and John both look at me, confused. "That's the name," I explain, and Sherlock's eyes widen in understanding. John still looks confused. I hail a cab and give the cabbie Molly's address. "Sorry, boys. This one's all mine." I smile. "Enjoy your Chinese!"

I get in the cab and leave them behind.

**A/N: **Here we are, the end of _A Study in Pink_. _The Blind Banker_ is next. Oh, the plans I have! *Rubs my hands together and cackles maniacally* Oops! Did I just do that...? ;P


	7. Girls' Night and a New Case

**A/N:** Not exactly _The Blind Banker_, but I hope you like it.

**Some notes on Reviews:**

**EdwardAnthonyMasenCullen1918:** Goddess, your name is long! ;P I'm glad you like it! _Are _you thinking what you think you're thinking? In the words of my _favorite_ psychopath: Spoilers!

**loveinfinity:** Here's the next chapter! It's not _The Blind Banker_. I'm going to be doing little cases between big cases. They're mostly going to be the ones mentioned on John's Blog, but there wasn't one between _A Study in Pink_ and _The Blind Banker_. Hope you like it!

**lostfeather1:** Thanks! Here's your update! She will outsmart him quite a bit, and this is one of those times!

**Vedra9:** Thanks! I like to think Kat is everything I'm not: Sassy and impossibly clever and doesn't care what people think about her. Here's your update!

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for: The New Chapter!

* * *

Girl's Night and a New Case

Sitting in the cab on the way to Molly's, I fire off a text.

**Hope you're up for chocolate ice cream and chick flicks. –KW**

**Yeah, why? –MH**

** Coming back from a crime scene. Talk when I get there. –KW**

** Alright. –MH**

I put my phone back in my pocket and smile. I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. Before I know it, we're at Molly's. I step out of the taxi, pay the cabbie, turn and walk up to the door. I ring her bell.

"Hello?" I hear Molly's voice from the speaker. I push the speak button.

"Hey, Molls," I say. "It's me."

"Kat! Let me buzz you in." I hear the buzzer, and push the door open. I head up the stairs to her flat. The door's open and she's standing there, waiting for me. She takes one look at me and gives me a hug. I hug her back, tightly.

"Thanks, Molls. I needed that." She nods, pulling back.

"C'mon in," she says, leading me into the flat. "I've got your favorites: Corny comedy-romances and Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra." I laugh and look around. Her flat is all pink—like a flamingo-puked-Pepto-Bismal-on-_everything_ pink. But it works for her.

I hang up my coat and plop down on couch with a sigh. Molly plops down next to me.

"Okay," she says, breaking the silence. "Talk." I tell her nearly everything. I talk about the flat, how perfect it is, and when Lestrade showed up, and everything about Lauriston Gardens. I tell her about the restaurant—she laughs when I tell her about Angelo—and my meeting with Mycroft. She can't believe I'd said that to him. I talk about what happened with the cabbie, leaving out the same details I left out for Lestrade. She hugs me again. And I tell her about Sean. I swear she sees red. Then I tell her the threat I told him. I probably won't follow through with it, but _he_ doesn't know that. Molly shakes her head, grinning. I tell her about the feud between Mycroft and Sherlock, and she frowns.

"There went _my_ chances," Molly mumbles with a frown. I rub her shoulder sympathetically.

Molly stands up and moves to the DVD player and pops in a disc. She moves to the kitchen as we wait for the previews to end. She comes back with the carton of Ben & Jerry's and two spoons. She holds them up with a dorky grin and I laugh again.

Four movies and a whole carton of ice cream later, Molly says her goodnights.

"You're going furniture shopping with me tomorrow, right?" I ask, punching my pillow. "You have an eye for color…." I look around her flat pointedly. "As long as it's not for _your_ flat." She glares at me and I laugh.

"Oh, yeah?" she says, getting an evil glint in her eye. _Uh-oh._ She walks into her room and I hear some shuffling. She comes back with her hands behind her back. She pulls her hands out and holds her pillow in front of her menacingly. My eyes widen. "You wanna say something about my flat again?" I grin.

"Yeah, actually," I start, pulling my pillow to my chest and holding it with both hands. If it comes to a fight, I _will_ win. "It's _too _pink. I get you like the color, Molly, but _seriously_! I walk in here and feel like I'm walking into the bubblegum room in the Wonka candy factory." I grin wider so she knows I'm joking. She huffs in mock anger. "What're you gonna do abo-mmph!" She hits me in the face with her pillow.

"The great psychic didn't see _that_ coming," she says cockily. "Did you?" The pillow slides off my face and lands in my lap. I look down at it before looking back up at her. I shrug.

"Psychics can't see everything," I reply. "_Especially _sneaky best friends!" I throw my pillow to her left on the last word, expecting her to dodge. I'm right, and it hits her in the shoulder. So begins our pillow fight.

Half an hour later, we're both lying on the floor, panting. I pick my pillow up from its spot next to me and whack her lightly in the stomach.

"I give!" she cries, laughing. "I give. You win!" I laugh.

"Woo-hoo!" I shout. We lay there for a moment longer, catching our breaths.

Molly stands up and holds her hand out to help me up. I take it and we both look around the room at the mess we've made. One of the pillows had torn towards the end, and there are fluffy feathers all over the place.

"Well," I mutter. "At least it's not _all_ pink anymore." Molly punches me in the arm lightly. "Ow!"

"Night, Kat," she calls with a laugh, heading towards her room. "We'll clean this up in the morning before heading out, yeah?" I nod.

"Night, Molls." I set my pillow and blanket up on the sofa before settling in. I let everything from the last couple days hit me, and I cry.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Weeks pass and everything seems great. Molly and I pick out some lovely furniture for my flat. It gets delivered on the following Saturday, and we arrange it. I move in and start my new life _without_ my cheating ex-boyfriend. Lestrade spoke with the Chief Superintendent and managed to get me special clearance to be on crime scenes. Everything goes really well, until this morning, when I hear shouting from downstairs. Being the ever-curious person I am, I head downstairs to check it out.

"I don't _care_ if you're bored, Sherlock!" I hear John shout as I walk the last three steps. "You can't just go around _experimenting_ on people!" I walk through the door.

"What's he done _this_ time?" I ask and both men turn towards me. John huffs in anger and Sherlock looks away. _Almost like he's ashamed_. I shake my head. _Not possible._

"He's testing this new chemical he's invented," John explains tetchily, "and he just _happened_ to think that_ my coffee_ was the best place to _test_ it!" My jaw drops before I turn to glare at Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" I start to reprimand before we all hear the bell ring. Sherlock and John look at each other.

"Client," they both say at the same time, moving to prepare. I stand there in shock for a minute that their argument is over, before shaking my head.

"Kat, if you'd be so kind as to let our guest in," Sherlock asks. I raise my eyebrows at him before shrugging and heading towards the stairs.

Opening the door, I find a small, blonde woman. She's wearing a white suit coat over a light pink knee-length dress. She looks at me nervously.

"Hello. I'm Elizabeth Sinclair. Is this where I can find Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" she asks.

"Yes, it is," I answer, nodding. "If you'd follow me, ma'am." I let her inside before closing the door and leading her upstairs. I step through the door to the boys' flat to find a wooden chair seated in front of the coffee table. Sherlock and John are in their respective seats: Sherlock has his hands steepled in front of him; John has a notebook and pencil in his hand. "If you'd have a seat, Ms. Sinclair." Ms. Sinclair sits in the chair and begins her explanation of how her husband disappeared before her very eyes into a building.

"I was in town on Monday, picking up a package and doing a little shopping," she explained. "When I had done my shopping, I walked the street in search of a cab. I wasn't in a very nice part of town. While I was walking, I heard a shout from a building to right. I looked up at a window on the second story and saw, to my surprise, my husband, Neville, looking down at me. I remember distinctly that he wore his coat, but not his shirt underneath. He waved his arms frantically as if beckoning me, before being pulled back quickly. I was convinced that something was wrong, so I ran up the stairs trying to get to where I'd seen him. At the entrance stood a foreign man standing lookout. He managed to shove me out and back onto the street. I pulled my mobile from pocket and phoned the police. Good fortune was mine, because there was a group of officers and an Inspector just down the street who came and made their way to where I'd seen Neville." She takes a deep breath to steady herself before beginning again. "He wasn't there. In fact, there was only one man in the entire building: A crippled man with bright orange hair and a horrid scar on his face. He lives there, apparently. His name is Hugh Boone." Sherlock nods. "Both he and the lookout _swear_ that no one else had been in the building. The two men were so adamant that the Inspector seemed to think I was delusional. That was, until I saw Neville's bag. I ran to it with a shout and turned it over. Out spilled some toys that Neville had promised to buy for our son this morning. The Inspector ordered a search of the entire building. They found blood on the bedroom windowsill. I'm afraid I fainted then, but I have heard the other discoveries from the Inspector: Neville's clothes had been found behind a curtain in the bedroom; his coat had been found on a narrow strip of land behind the building after the tide had lowered—the back of the building overlooks one of the wharfs; in the pockets of his coat they found quite a bit of change. I was told that Mr. Boone had sworn that the blood on the windowsill was his: He'd cut his finger earlier in the day. I'm not sure I believe him." She pauses again, looking down. "What do you think, Mr. Holmes?"

"I think, in fact I'm _quite_ sure, that your husband is dead, Mrs. Sinclair," Sherlock answers. John and I both glare at Sherlock, but Mrs. Sinclair seems unperturbed.

"Then how do you explain this, Mr. Holmes?" she asks, pulling an envelope from her purse. "Just today I received this letter. It's post-marked today. It's Neville's handwriting."

"What?" Sherlock shouted in surprise. "Might I see it?" Mrs. Sinclair nods and hands it to Sherlock. He examines the letter closely. "You're _sure_ it's his handwriting?"

"Yes, I am," she answers, nodding. "Mr. Holmes, there is a connection between Neville and I. Just Monday morning he cut himself in the bedroom." I look up at this, seeing a connection. "I was in the dining room, but I rushed upstairs instantly with the certainty that something had happened to him. Do you think that I would react to something so trivial and yet not react at all to his death? Will you help me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Mrs. Sinclair," he starts, "I'm afraid I have no answer regarding your husband's disappearance. I will, however, look into the case and see what I can uncover." Mrs. Sinclair thanks Sherlock profusely before turning to me to lead her out the door. Before opening the front door, I turn to her.

"Mrs. Sinclair, was your husband ever an actor?" I ask, a slight suspicion nagging at me. She starts in surprise, before nodding.

"Yes," she answers. "But that was long before I met him." I nod.

"And where did he cut himself on Monday?" I ask.

"His ring finger, near the nail. Does that have anything to do with him disappearing?" she asks as I open the door.

"I'm not sure. But don't worry about a thing, ma'am," I reassure as she walks out the door. "Whatever happened to your husband, we _will_ figure it out." She nods and says goodbye. I close the door and turn to head back up the stairs. Walking back into the flat, I find Sherlock bouncing ideas at John.

"Suppose that this man Boone had thrown Neville Sinclair out the window," Sherlock says. "No one would have seen him do it. He'd then get rid of Neville Sinclair's clothes. He would grab the coat and be in the act of tossing it when it would occur to him that it would float. At this time he has already heard Mrs. Sinclair try to force her way up, and would have heard from the lookout that the police are on their way. He doesn't have time to lose." He pauses. "Hugh Boone is a notorious beggar. You've both probably seen him here or there. He must have rushed to some secret stash of coins to put in the coat pockets to weigh the coat down. He throws it out the window and then hears the police downstairs. He has just enough time to close the window and sit across the room when the police appear."

"It's certainly possible," John responds. I shake my head.

"I'm not so sure that's how it happened," I say, and they both look at me. "I get the distinct feeling that Mr. Neville Sinclair is still alive."

"How?" Sherlock asks.

"Special," I respond, grinning, and Sherlock groans. I sit in the chair they set out for Mrs. Sinclair. "Anyway, even if that _was_ what happened, how do you explain the letter?" Sherlock takes the letter and envelope hands them to me. I examine it. "Post-marked today, coarse writing on the envelope doesn't match the handwriting on the letter. The name on the envelope was written quickly, but the address was written much slower. Whoever filled out the envelope didn't know the address, had to look it up. Which means it _couldn't_ have been sent by Mr. Sinclair." John looks at me in shock. Sherlock nods.

"Sound deductions," he says, "and exactly what I saw. No, the letter was written by Mr. Sinclair, but it was not sent by him. He could have written it Monday, and it was posted after."

"Which means he's probably dead," John finishes, and Sherlock nods again. I shake my head.

"I'm telling you, he's still alive," I answer. Sherlock shakes his head at me.

"If you can explain to me how you think so," he says, "without telling me it's because you're 'special', I'll look into it." He smirks at me, thinking he's won. I glare at him.

"I think Mr. Sinclair was _not_ killed by Hugh Boone. Mr. Sinclair _is_ Hugh Boone," I say. Sherlock looks incredulous. "Mr. Sinclair was an actor once upon a time. I asked Mrs. Sinclair just as she was leaving. As an actor, he'd have to know _something_ about stage make-up. Also, when he cut himself Monday morning?" They both nod. "His ring finger, just near the nail. Mr. Boone said he'd cut himself on the finger and that's where the blood on the windowsill came from." John looks at me in awe.

"Wow," he says, "I keep forgetting how good you are at that." I shrug.

"I think," I explain, "that Mr. Sinclair had been changing after finishing his begging for the day. He walks past the window and sees, much to his surprise, his wife. He shouts in surprise and moves his arms to hide his face, but it's too late. His wife has seen him. He tells the lookout not to let anyone in, grabs his stage make-up and becomes Hugh Boone. He needs to get rid of his clothing, so he takes the coat, puts the change in it and throws it out the window. Opening the window reopened the cut on his finger, leaving blood. He hears from the lookout that the police are on their way. He has just enough time to close the window and take a seat somewhere just as the police make it upstairs."

"It's possible," Sherlock replies slowly. I grin at him.

"Bet you twenty quid Hugh Boone has refused to bathe," I say. John looks confused. "If he's wearing stage make-up, it'll come off in a bath." John nods. Sherlock looks at me, calculating.

"Alright," he says, smirking, "you're on."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Fifteen minutes later finds us in New Scotland Yard, asking to see Hugh Boone. The Inspector at the desk recognizes me when I flash my new ID badge. His name is Bradstreet. He gets up and leads us towards the cells, explaining why we might not want to see him.

"He absolutely _refuses_ to bathe," he groans. I smirk at Sherlock and he rolls his eyes. "Good thing he'll be facing judgment soon."

"Why?" John asks.

"Well," Bradstreet answers, shrugging. "Then he'll be _required_ to take baths daily."

We reach the cell and the officer opens the door for us. Sure enough, the man inside _reeks_. He's asleep in the corner. Sherlock and I glance at each other, before I pull my bag open. Inside I've got face wipes, the ones that are specifically for make-up. Bradstreet looks at me like I've gone insane. I open the wipes and walk quietly Mr. Boone. I kneel down and start cleaning his face with the wipe, making sure to get the scar. After a few moments, his orange hair starts sliding, and I pull it off. _It's a wig!_ I pull back as he starts to stir and walk back to the three men by the door.

"There!" I say, holding the wig. "I give you, Mr. Neville Sinclair." Bradstreet and John look on in shock. Sherlock looks pained. "We agreed on twenty, yeah?" I ask him, and he pulls his wallet out of his pocket, shaking his head. Mr. Sinclair wakes up fully and realizes that his make-up is gone. He throws his arms up to hide his face.

"It IS him!" Bradstreet shouts. "I recognize him from the pictures." Mr. Sinclair pulls his arms from his face and sighs.

"Yes," he says. "I am Neville Sinclair. Tell me, what are my charges now?"

"Why, the murder of Mr. Neville—that would only work if they tried to make it an attempted suicide case," Bradstreet replies, ending with a grin.

"You should have trusted your wife more," I tell Mr. Sinclair. He shakes his head.

"It wasn't my wife, it was my children," he replies. "I don't want them to be ashamed of their father." He groans. "What am I going to do?"

"If you leave it up to a judge," I say, "there'll be quite a bit of publicity." He groans again. "If you manage to convince the police that there was no crime committed, they might just drop all charges and let you walk." He looks up at me in hope. Bradstreet cuts in.

"I'm already certain that there wasn't a crime," he says. "I can put in a word with the higher authorities here, let them know you're good to go. But you'll have to stop becoming Hugh Boone if you want us to hush this up." Mr. Sinclair nods vigorously.

"Oh, yes," he replies. "I've already sworn it to myself." Bradstreet nods then turns to me.

"Thanks, Kat," he says. "I don't know that we could've figured this one out." I nod and grin.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The ride back to the flat is uncomfortable. Sherlock spends the entire trip glaring out the window. John and I keep throwing glances his way.

"Sherlock," John says gently. "It's okay to be wrong every once in a while." Sherlock glares at John, then turns and glares at me.

"How did you know?" he asks. I shrug.

"There are just some things you don't question," I answer. "Like a woman's intuition."

"I swear, if you say it's because you're 'special', I'll-" I cut him off.

"Not just _my_ intuition," I say. "Mrs. Sinclair's intuition, too." Sherlock just glares at me, before turning back to the window.

"Stupid psychic," he grumbles.

"Hey," I snap and he looks up. "Psychics can't see everything. I beat you on _one_ case. You'll beat me on the next ten, maybe fifteen. Chill out." This seems to mollify him. I turn to John, grinning. "Hungry? My treat. I've got an extra twenty quid just waiting to be spent." John laughs and Sherlock mock-glares at me before sighing and telling us about this lovely Indian restaurant. I smile.


	8. Money Troubles

**A/N:** So begins _The Blind Banker_. The romance starts a little bit here. Had a _lot _of fun writing that part ^/^

**Some notes on Reviews:**

**EdwardAnthonyMasenCullen1918: **I'm just gonna shorten your name when I'm responding to your reviews. Probably just **EAMC1918**, if that's okay with you. As for whether or not you're right, I confirm nothing.

**lostfeather1:** You don't think Sherlock's a bit OOC when it comes to Kat? Anyway, I'm glad you like them so much. I have a feeling you're _really_ going to love this chapter. Cheers!

**loveinfinity:** I'm glad I write them so well, and I'm glad you like it! It most definitely is _not_ going to be awkward for Molly. She's going to try and play matchmaker. She'll be one of the first to see the chemistry. Molly, John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are all going to see it before Kat does. Hell, even _Sherlock_ will see it before Kat does. She's not looking for love right now. In fact she's actively not-looking. As in Not-hyphen-Looking.

**Vedra9:** I feel like the little cases between the ones the episodes are centered around helped deepen the friendship between John and Sherlock. I feel like they can help bring Kat and Sherlock closer, too. I'm glad you love it! It's nice to know my first fanfic is so good.

**Here we go!**

* * *

Money Troubles

It's March now. Molly and I finish our shopping for some spring outfits, hoping it gets warm soon. As we make our way back to Baker Street from the last small shop, Molly tells me all about the cute guy she met who works in IT. I'm slightly apprehensive as she describes him, but I keep it to myself.

"And he asked me if I wanted to have coffee," she gushes, waving her bags around. "_With_ him! And he said my nose was cute." I laugh.

"That's great, Molls," I say. "It's nice to see you happy with someone." She sighs happily before turning to me.

"Hey!" she snaps, mock-glaring. "I'm not _with_ anyone!" I laugh again, and she smiles dreamily. "But maybe I _will_ be, one day." I smile at her.

"You will," I say. "But I _don't _think his name is Jim." She glares at me then looks thoughtful. She makes a sneaky grin.

"So…. When are we getting _you_ a man?" she asks, wiggling her eyebrows. I snort and shake my head.

"After what happened with Sean?" I ask, saying his name with contempt.

"And you thought he was 'The One'," she says. I shake my head.

"Psychics can't see everything," I respond. She looks at me sadly, before lighting up.

"Maybe _Sherlock_ is the guy you're looking for!" she suggests excitedly. I shake my head again. "No, hear me out. You said he'd be a detective and he'd live in London. And he'd be about the right age." She looks thoughtful for a moment. "Clearly _Sean_ wasn't the guy you were looking for. Maybe it's time to start looking again?"

"No," I reply. "Maybe in time, but for now? I'm basking in the single light."

"Aww…" Molly whines, pouting. I laugh loudly and she moves all her bags to one hand and pokes me in the side.

"Anyway, I should get back," I say. She pouts again. "I have to get _this_ stuff put away, and then have lunch."

"You could always have lunch with me," she mumbles, still pouting. I shake my head as we reach the steps to 221.

"Just a feeling I've got," I respond cryptically. She laughs and shakes her head. "See ya, Molls!"

"Yeah, see ya!" she calls back, trying to get a cab. I shift put the bags in my right hand down onto the porch, pulling my keys out of my pocket. I open the door, pick my bags back up and head up the stairs. I hear a lot of shuffling coming from Sherlock's flat, and I see why when I get to the landing. I drop my bags in surprise.

Sherlock is in his living room, dodging and ducking a sword being swung by a man in a robe and headscarves. The man quickly backs Sherlock toward the sofa, swinging his sword again. Sherlock ducks under the sword, only to fall back into the sitting position. The man lifts his sword above his head with both hands.

"Oi!" I shout, drawing his attention away from Sherlock. He turns to me, about to charge, when Sherlock lifts his leg and kicks the man hard in the chest, shoving him backwards. Sherlock gets to his feet, nods to me and straightens his jacket before charging the man. I run into the flat and watch the fight, preparing to jump in if I need to. The man pulls the curved blade in, taking the dull edge in his left hand before charging Sherlock. Sherlock catches the man's wrists, but the man is pushing Sherlock backwards into the kitchen. I run to the closet, grabbing the cane I know John stores in there. I rush back to find the man leaning over Sherlock with his sword over Sherlock's throat. I run into the kitchen and start swinging the cane into the man's side repeatedly until Sherlock manages to push the man off him into the living room again. I try to dodge out of the way, but I hiss in pain as the man's sword nicks my arm. Sherlock follows the man, dodging underneath the sword. The man takes one last swing at Sherlock, who ducks. Sherlock quickly straightens up and points over the man's shoulder.

"Look!" Sherlock shouts. The man looks at where Sherlock is pointing. Sherlock takes advantage of the man's distraction and makes a swift uppercut into the man's chin as he turns back. The man drops unconscious into Sherlock's chair. Sherlock checks his reflection in the mirror, straightening his jacket and cuffs and dusting himself down, before looking at the man and then turning to me.

"Have a seat, Kat," he says, moving to the cupboards, trying to find something. I stare at him blankly. "We're going to have to bandage your arm up. It doesn't look like it needs stitches, but we should try to eliminate the possibility of infection." He turns around to face me with a first aid kit in his hand. "Sit." I pull a chair out from the table and sit in it. He sets the first aid kit on the table, opening it. He turns to the sink, grabs a cloth from a drawer and runs it under the sink. He comes back around the table and pulls another chair out and sits down in front of me. He takes me by the wrist and lifts my arm up. "Hold it there." He takes the cloth and starts wiping the blood from the cut, watching his work closely. His face is just inches from mine. I take the chance to really look at him. His eyes are a swirling mix of icy blue and burning gold.

"I'd _kill_ to have your eyes," I say. He glances up at me in confusion, and I feel my pulse quicken slightly. _Stop it! _"Mine are just plain brown. You've got sectoral heterochromia." He turns to put the now-bloody cloth on the table, grabbing something else.

"Do I?" he asks, bored. I snort.

"How do you _not_ know what color your eyes are?" I ask in disbelief. He shrugs slightly before cleaning the cut with an alcohol wipe. I wince slightly and Sherlock glances at me again.

"It's not important," he says. I roll my eyes and look past him at the robed man, checking to make sure he's still out cold. "What I find interesting though," Sherlock says, pulling my attention back to him, "is how tolerant to pain you are." I tilt my head at him and frown. "This cut is much deeper than I originally thought. Still not enough to need stitches, but certainly enough to cause pain. And yet, here you sit, making conversation." He leans away from me to open a large bandage. "As if you don't feel the pain." He sticks the bandage on my arm over the cut. "Why _is_ that?" I shrug, turning away. I don't want to think about it.

"It's a part of my past you haven't figured out yet," I reply sadly. "Maybe you have some idea, some theory, but you don't have all the facts to come to a conclusion." I see Sherlock frowning at me from the corner of my eye. "It's something that happened years ago that I would rather forget."

"The reason you're not in contact with your family?" he asks. I nod.

"Like I said, I'd rather forget," I respond, looking up at him. We sit like that for a long, silent moment, until we hear groaning coming from the living room. I shake my head to clear my thoughts. "You take care of _him_," I gesture to the man, grinning, "while I take my shopping upstairs. I'll come back down and help you clean up a bit so John doesn't think you've done anything." Sherlock nods, standing up and moving towards the man. I get out of my chair and push it back to the table, doing the same for Sherlock's. Walking out the door, I grab my bags and head up the stairs to my flat.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The flat is clean. No sign of the robed man or the fight. Well, all but one or two. Sherlock explains that it was about a missing diamond. The man had come to the flat, thinking Sherlock had the diamond, when _really_ Sherlock had been trying to find its location. I listen attentively until he finishes. He picks up a book from next to him and starts to read. Taking this as a signal that our conversation is over, I turn to my bag next to my new chair. It seems one of the boys wasn't too happy that I have to stand to the side when we interview clients, so they got me a wide armchair. I sit Indian-style and pull my laptop into my lap, pulling up the internet browser and checking my e-mail. I've got a few from some of my pagan friends, asking about me. I'm typing up my third response when John walks in.

"You took your time," Sherlock greets, not looking up from his book. John shifts nervously.

"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping," John replies. Sherlock looks up at him indignantly over the top of his book.

"What?" he asks. "Why not?"

"Because I had a row, in the shop, with a chip-and-PIN machine," John answers tetchily. I chuckle softly as Sherlock lowers his book slightly.

"You…you had a row with a machine?" Sherlock asks.

"Sounds like your fights with Sherlock," I murmur just loud enough for them to hear.

"Sort of," John answers, ignoring me. "It sat there and I shouted abuse." I laugh.

"So _exactly_ like your fights with Sherlock!" I tease. John makes a long-suffering sigh.

"Have you got cash?" he asks Sherlock. Sherlock holds back an amused smile and nods toward the kitchen.

"Take my card," he says. John starts walking into the kitchen and gets about halfway before turning back around.

"You _could_ always go yourself, you know," he tells Sherlock indignantly. "You've been sitting there all morning. You've not moved since I left." Sherlock glances at me and I grin.

"Here John," I say, pulling my wallet out of my back pocket. "How much do you think you'll need?" John looks over to me, surprised, and starts to protest. I wave him off. "Don't worry about it. It's not like I'm hurting for cash. If you want, you can just pay me back whenever." John walks back towards me and takes the money I offer him, nodding in thanks. He looks at Sherlock again.

"And what happened about that case you were offered—the Jaria Diamond?" John asks, turning to count the cash.

"Not interested," Sherlock responds, taking a piece of paper and using it as a bookmark. He shuts the book with a loud snap and looks at me. I gaze pointedly down beneath his chair and he looks down to see the attacker's sword lying in plain view. He quickly slams his foot down onto the end and slides it further back and out of sight.

"He sent them a message," I tell John as he looks up, distracting him from the unexpected sound of clinking metal. John looks at Sherlock suspiciously before shaking his head and heading out the door. When we hear the front door of the building close, Sherlock and I turn to each other and grin.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

About an hour and a half later, John comes staggering up the stairs with several shopping bags.

"Don't worry about me," he grunts sarcastically. "I can manage." I close my laptop and lay it on the table next to me before getting up to help. Sherlock turns his head slightly towards John without taking his eyes off the laptop in front of him. I help John put food into the cupboards, working quickly. "Thanks," he says and I nod, smiling. John turns back to Sherlock to tell him off before stopping short. "Is that my computer?" Sherlock starts to type.

"Of course," he answers.

"What?!" John shouts.

"Mine was in the bedroom," Sherlock replies.

"What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?" John asks angrily, but Sherlock doesn't reply. "It's password protected!" Sherlock keeps typing.

"In a manner of speaking," he says, and I can't help but roll my eyes at him. "Took me less than a minute to guess yours." He glances up at John. "Not exactly Fort Knox."

"Right, thank you," John says, annoyed. He reaches over and slams the lid down as Sherlock pulls his fingers out of the way just in time. John walks across the room to sit in his armchair and puts the laptop down on the floor beside him. Sherlock steeples his hands in front of his mouth and props his elbows on the table. I walk back to my chair as John picks up a stack of mail from the table beside him. He frowns.

"Oh," he mutters, flicking through the letters. I can tell that some are bills. He shakes his head, resigned. "Need to get a job."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock says, and I glare at him. I turn to John.

"Try the surgery at Bart's," I tell him. He looks at me and I shrug. "Just a feeling. Ask for a Doctor Sawyer. She'll probably hire you."

"Thanks," he says, sighing in what I hope is relief.

"No problem," I respond, smiling. "That's what friends are for, right, Sherlock?" I turn to Sherlock, but he's not paying any attention.

"Sherlock, are you listening?" John asks him.

"I need to go to the bank," Sherlock replies without turning. He gets up and heads towards the door, taking his coat from its spot as he goes. John and I frown at each other before jumping up and hurrying after him.

* * *

**A/N:** Next chapter, Sebastian tries his hand at flirting, and Sherlock doesn't take to kindly to it.


	9. Old Friends

**A/N:** New chapter! Woohoo! Ms Wintle is based off of one of my best friends and she _will _keep popping up.

**Some notes on reviews:**

**lostfeather1:** Here's your chapter. Sorry the last one was so short. This one is quite a bit longer (5,101 words in the Word Document, not including the title), so hopefully it makes up for that. I'm glad you love the story so much.

**Soultigerdrwho: **Can I just say I LOVE your name? I'm glad you like the story. To answer your question: Yes. It is going to follow all three seasons, but I'm going to have cases between the episodes. Mostly they'll be the cases from John's blog. Hope that answers your question.

**EAMC1918: **I'm glad I can shorten your name. No comments are the _best_ comments, don't you think? ;P Here's the next chapter, hope you like it.

**Vedra9: **I know. I _hate_ having to wait for updates. So even though I'm not consistent, I'm not making you wait forever either. I'm glad you loved the last chapter. Kat's past is a thing indeed. She's got _a lot_ of issues, but she works past them. The end of _The Blind Banker_ is going to have a major clue about her pain tolerance ;)

**Guest:** Thanks! I'm glad you like it.

**New Chapter!**

* * *

Old Friends

One taxi ride later, Sherlock leads John and me through a revolving glass door. John stares at the impressive lobby.

"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank…" he says, trailing off. I chuckle under my breath. The three of us step onto an escalator, Sherlock observing everything as per usual. We reach the top and walk over to the reception desk.

"Sherlock Holmes," he says to one of the receptionists.

A few minutes later we're being shown into the office of one Sebastian Wilkes. The man in question walks in and grins at Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes," he greets.

"Sebastian," Sherlock responds. They shake hands, Sebastian clasping Sherlock's hand in both of his.

"Howdy, buddy," Sebastian says. "How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?" Sherlock looks back at him, and I can tell Sherlock doesn't like him. "Have you heard they found her: The missing Kensington heiress?"

"It's not her," Sherlock responds. "DNA tests will come back negative." Sebastian looks at him, shaking his head at him and then turning to John and me. "These are my friends, John Watson and Kat Wilson." Sebastian looks surprised.

"Friends?" he asks.

"Colleagues," John corrects, extending his hand. Sebastian takes it.

"Right," he says, throwing a brief, incredulous look at Sherlock, then turns to me. He takes my hand and kisses the back of it.

"Quite the gentleman, aren't you?" I ask, smiling and flushing lightly. He grins back at me, before glancing at Sherlock. He scratches his neck and I catch a glimpse of his watch. _Two trips in a month_. He turns away.

"Well," he says, "grab a pew. D'you need anything? Coffee, water?" Sherlock shakes his head.

"No," John says. Sebastian turns to me.

"Water would be lovely, thanks," I respond. Sebastian turns to his secretary.

"Just water for the lovely lady," he tells her, and she leaves the room. Sebastian sits at his desk. Sherlock, John and I sit in the three chairs opposite him.

"So, you're doing well," Sherlock says conversationally. "You've been abroad a lot."

"Well, some," Sebastian replies.

"Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?" Sherlock asks. John frowns in confusion. Sebastian points and laughs at Sherlock.

"Right," he says. "You're doing that thing." He turns to me and John. "We were at uni together. This guy had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock murmurs quietly.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story," Sebastian continued, either not hearing Sherlock or ignoring him entirely. "Put the wind up everybody. We hated him." Sherlock looks down and away.

"Yes," John responds. "I've seen him do it." He pauses. "I've seen Kat do it as well." Sebastian looks surprised.

"Really?" he asks. I nod, and he turns to Sherlock again. "Go on, enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world—you're quite right. How could you tell?" Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but Sebastian continues. "You're gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan." John smiles as Sherlock tries to get a word in.

"No, I…" he says before Sebastian speaks again, cutting him off.

"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!" he exclaims. Sherlock is annoyed with him. So am I. I jump in.

"We were just chatting with your secretary outside," I say, giving him an _ordinary_ explanation. "_She_ told us." John looks at me and frowns. Sebastian laughs loudly. Sherlock smiles at Sebastian with a lack of humor. Sebastian claps his hands then becomes more serious.

"I'm glad you could make it over," he says, glancing at me. "We've had a break-in." He stands and heads toward his office door. We stand and follow. "Sir William's office—the bank's former Chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in last night."

"What did they steal?" John asks.

"Nothing," Sebastian and I say at the same time. Sebastian looks at me, surprised, before continuing. "Just left a little message." He places his security card against the reader by the door to unlock it. Hanging on the plain white wall behind the large desk is a framed painted portrait of a man in a suit. I assume he's the late Sir William. On the wall to the left of the portrait is a symbol spray-painted in yellow. It looks like a number eight, but the top is open and there is a horizontal line above it. Across the eyes of the portrait is another horizontal line, yellow paint trailing down the canvas. The three of us step into the office. John and Sherlock look at the portrait, while I glance out the window.

Later, we stand in Sebastian's office as he shows us the security footage from the night before.

"Sixty seconds apart," Sebastian says, flicking back and forth between the still taken at 23:34:01—which shows the paint on the wall and on the portrait—and 23:33:01—when the wall and portrait are spray-paint free. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute."

"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock asks.

"Well, that's where this gets really interesting," Sebastian answers. "Back to reception." We head out of the office towards the elevator. Stepping into the elevator, Sebastian pushes the button for the ground floor. The doors close and after a minute he turns to me.

"So, how do you become a colleague of Sherlock Holmes?" he asks. I shrug.

"It's a bit of a story," I respond, smiling. He nods.

"I figured it had to be," he says. I tilt my head at him. "There's no way a woman as beautiful as you could get mixed up with someone like him." I flush at his compliment in embarrassment. I feel a strange flash of anger—similar to the one I felt when first facing that cabbie months ago. Like then, it's not mine. Trying to figure it out, I don't hear Sebastian's next question. John is dutifully ignoring us. Sherlock seems to be doing that as well, but his shoulders are tense and he's glaring at the door of the elevator.

"Kat?" Sebastian says, concerned. I look towards him again.

"Hmm?" I hum, before realizing he'd asked me a question. "Sorry, I sort of zoned out. You were saying?" I see Sherlock smirk out of the corner of my eye as Sebastian frowns.

"I was asking if you'd like to join me for dinner," he says. "So you could tell me how you and Sherlock met." I look at him blankly before replying.

"Sorry, Sebastian," I say. "I'm really not interested in _dinner_." I say the word "dinner" in a way that lets him know that _I_ know he doesn't really want "dinner". He looks down, slightly abashed as Sherlock chuckles under his breath. The elevator dings, letting us know we'd reached our floor. We step out and Sebastian leads us towards a security desk. He pulls up the layout for the trading floor and its surrounding offices on one of the computers. Each designated door has a light against it showing its security status. Most of the lights are red, indicating that they are open.

"Every door that opens in this bank," Sebastian starts to explain, "it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet."

"That door didn't open last night," Sherlock says in response. Sebastian nods.

"There's a hole in our security," he says. "Find it and we'll pay you—five figures." He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and takes out a check. "This is an advance. Tell me how he got in, there's a bigger one on its way." Sherlock frowns.

"I don't _need_ an incentive, Sebastian," he says before walking away. John watches him go, then turns to Sebastian.

"He's, uh, he's kidding you, obviously," John says, holding his hand out. "Sh-shall I look after that for him?" Sebastian starts to hand him the check, but I reach in and snatch it.

"I'll take that," I say, and they both look at me, startled, as I fold the check and put it in my wallet. "I'll make sure it gets to his brother, who's been depositing money into Sherlock's account anonymously for a while now. He'll do the same for this." I put my wallet back into my pocket before turning and heading towards the elevator again, knowing Sherlock's back in the office.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

I find Sherlock in the office, taking pictures of the spray paint with his phone. He takes several pictures before he starts turning in place slowly, and I can almost see the symbols floating in front of him. He looks to the windows then looks at me.

"I saw you glancing at the window earlier," he says, and I nod. "You think _that's_ how the intruder got in?" I nod again. He turns back to the window and walks towards it. He pulls up the blinds—revealing a glass door—as I walk over toward him. He opens the door and steps out onto a small balcony and I step out behind him. He looks out over the balcony towards the ground.

_**"This phone call—it's, er…it's my note," I hear Sherlock say, but it sounds like it's coming from a phone. "It's what people do, don't they: Leave a note?"**_

I stumble backwards into the office, breathing heavily.

_** "Leave a note when?" John asks from next to me. There's a pause from Sherlock.**_

_** "Goodbye, John," I hear him say.**_

This one hits me hard.

_** "Goodbye, Kat."**_

Sherlock glances over his shoulder at me before spinning fully and striding toward me. He grips me hard by the arm, sits me in one of the chairs and forces my head down, his hand on the back of my neck. We stay like that for a long moment as my breathing slows and I relax. I feel him lift his hand and I lean back in the chair.

"What did you see?" he asks.

"I _saw_ nothing," I answer, shaking my head. "And what I _heard_ isn't important right now." He looks at me sternly. "The graffiti is a warning for someone. We just have to find out whom." Sherlock stares at me thoughtfully before nodding and heading out of the office. I follow him and pull my phone out on a hunch and start recording him. Good thing I do. He moves about the trading floor, ducking behind screens and around pillars, before backing into one of the offices. I can't help but laugh at him. He looks like he's dancing. The traders on the floor watch him with confusion and amusement. I see Sherlock back up to stand behind the desk in the office across the floor. He heads back towards the door before stopping and looking at it. He then slides a name card out and heads towards the elevator, nodding at me to follow along.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Sherlock, John and I walk back towards the escalators.

"Two trips around the world this month," John says. "We didn't speak with his secretary. You said that just to irritate him." Sherlock and I smile, but neither of us respond. "How _did_ you know?"

"Did you see his watch?" I ask him. Sherlock glances at me looking pleased I picked up that detail.

"His watch?" John asks, confused.

"The time was right but the date was wrong," I explain. "Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it."

"Within a month?" John continues. "How'd you get that part?"

"New Breitling," Sherlock answers. "Only came out this February." John nods.

"Okay," he says. "So d'you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?"

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks," Sherlock responds.

"Hmm?" John hums.

"That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors," I explain to John. "We find the intended recipient and…" I trail off deliberately.

"…They'll lead us to the person who sent it," John finishes.

"Obvious," Sherlock responds. John frowns.

"Well, there's three hundred people up there," John states. "Who was it meant for?"

"Pillars," Sherlock replies. I shake my head at him, chuckling.

"What?" John asks, confused.

"Pillars and the screens," Sherlock answers. "Very few places you can see that graffiti from."

"He checked," I interrupt, turning to John, before grinning and whispering conspiratorially: "I got video."

"It narrows the field considerably," Sherlock continues, thankfully not having heard that last part. "And of course the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot."

"Does it?" John asks. We walk through the revolving doors again and make our way onto the street.

"Traders come to work at all hours, John," I explain, knowing Sherlock won't. "Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight." Sherlock holds the name card up to show John.

"Not many Van Coons in the phonebook," he says before throwing a hand up in the air.

"Taxi!" he calls loudly.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

One short taxi ride later, we stand outside a block of flats. Sherlock presses the buzzer marked "Van Coon". He releases it and looks into the security camera above the buzzers, waiting a couple seconds before pressing the buzzer again. There's no response.

"So what do we do now?" John asks. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?" Sherlock looks at the buzzers again before stepping back and looking at the front of the building. He steps back up to the buzzer again and looks at John and me, a triumphant smirk on his face.

"Just moved in," he says, confusing John. I look at the labels for the buzzers, examining the one above Van Coons. It's hand written with the name "Wintle". _Sounds familiar, but it _can't _be._

"What?" John asks. I start feeling sorry for my friend. He's asked that word quite a bit today.

"The floor above," I say, pointing at the buzzers. "New label."

"Could have just replaced it," John suggests, put out. Sherlock presses the buzzer and looks at John.

"No one ever does that," he says.

"Hello?" A familiar voice comes over the intercom. Sherlock turns to the camera and smiles, putting on an act. I roll my eyes at him.

"Hi!" he greets. "Um, I live in the flat just below you. I-I don't think we've met."

"No, well, uh, I've just moved in," Miss Wintle responds in a distinctly American accent. Sherlock throws a brief told-you-so glance at John over his shoulder then turns back to the camera.

"Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat," Sherlock says, biting his lip.

"D'you want me to buzz you in?" Miss Wintle asks.

"Yeah," Sherlock replies. "And can I use your balcony?"

"What?" Miss Wintle asks.

Somehow Sherlock talks his way into getting us into Miss Wintle's flat. We walk up the stairs and to her door. Sherlock takes the job of knocking. The door opens, and the woman who greets us surprises me. She's slim, a few inches shorter than me, with short brown hair framing her face and deep brown eyes which widen when she sees me.

"Audrey?!" I ask. John and Sherlock look at me in surprise.

"KAT!" she shouts in surprise. We step towards each other and hug. Pulling back, I introduce her to Sherlock and John.

"Sherlock, John," I say, "might I introduce Miss Audrey Wintle, my best friend _ever_ from school. Audrey, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, and Dr. John Watson. They live downstairs from me across town.

"So you _don't_ live downstairs from me," she accuses Sherlock. He just glances at her balcony. She turns back to me. "And here I'd thought maybe we were neighbors." She pouts. I laugh.

"Hey, we're in the same country, in the same city," I say. "You and I will be just as much of a nuisance now as we were back then."

"Damn straight!" She agrees, laughing. "Come on in. I've got coffee if you'd like some." I laugh again as we walk into her flat. "What?!"

"How's the caffeine stream?" I ask, choosing a seat on the sofa.

"It's got too much blood in it," she answers, grinning and turning towards the kitchen. Sherlock looks up at the word "blood". John looks uncomfortable. "I need to fix that."

"Have you got any tea?" I ask. "Two spoons of sugar if you do, please." She turns and looks at me.

"God, you sure went native," she says. "You've got the accent and the tea-drinking down." I laugh again. "How'd you manage to move here, anyway?"

"I won the lotto," I answer, shrugging. Sherlock moves towards the balcony and I glance in his direction.

"And you didn't share with me?" Audrey asks indignantly.

"Didn't you ever get a large sum of money from nowhere?" I ask. She stares at me blankly before realization seems to hit her.

"That was _you_?" I nod.

"You didn't really think I'd _not_ share with my best friend, did you?" I ask. She shrugs as she starts boiling water.

"Well," she responds, "we didn't really see much of each other after high school, and we saw each other less and less as time went on." I nod.

"Yeah, well, you're here now, so…" I reply, smiling. She comes back into the living room with two mugs. She hands one to me and keeps the other. It's a mug I got her: A _Finding Nemo_ mug, complete with lucky fin.

"I should, um, go check on Sherlock," John says, heading towards the door. Audrey and I look around the flat and see that Sherlock isn't there anymore, but the balcony door is open. Audrey looks at me in surprise and I shake my head.

"Don't ask."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Some time passes. Audrey and I catch up and I'm just about to leave to check on the boys when there's a knocking on the door. John stands there, eyes wide.

"Sherlock wants you downstairs," he tells me. I nod, standing up off the couch.

"That bad?" I ask. John nods.

"Apparent suicide," he answers. Audrey gasps as I head towards the door.  
"Right," I respond. "Sorry, Audrey, I've got to go."

"One of those cases you were telling me about?" she asks, and I nod, walking out the door.

"Bye! We'll talk later," I call. We walk down the hallway towards the stairs. When we reach the flat, an officer stands there and blocks our way. He lets us through when I show him my ID badge.

"How does that work, anyway?" John asks as we step into the flat and head towards the bedroom.

"It basically says that I'm an expert and that I'm allowed on nearly every crime scene," I answer. "I'm basically a detective inspector, but without the paperwork or the paycheck."

"Or the underlings," John finishes, chuckling.

"No, that's what I have you and Sherlock for," I respond, grinning, and he mock-glares at me. We step into the bedroom to find Sherlock pulling on a pair of latex gloves. The man on the bed—Van Coon—is wearing a suit. There is a gun lying next to the bed on the floor, and he has a small bullet wound on the right side of his head.

"D'you think he'd lost a _lot_ of money?" John asks. "I mean, suicide is pretty common among City boys." I shake my head.

"We don't know that it _was_ a suicide," Sherlock responds.

"Come on," John argues. "The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony."

"I think that's how the killer got in, too," I say softly. Sherlock glances at me before squatting down by a suitcase on the floor, opening the lid and looking at what's inside.

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry," Sherlock says. I wrinkle my nose as he examines the contents more closely. "Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it."

"Thanks," John says, not moving. "I'll take your word for it." Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

"Problem?" he asks.

"Yeah," John answers, "I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear." Sherlock ignores this comment and walks to the front of the bank.

"Those symbols at the bank—the graffiti. Why were they put there?" Sherlock asks.

"Some sort of code," I answer.

"Obviously," Sherlock responds. He moves up and carefully opens the man's jacket, looking at his inside pockets. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," John suggests.

"Oh good," Sherlock responds. "You follow."

"No," John replies. Sherlock throws him a look before turning to me. I nod.

"What kind of a message would everyone try to avoid?" I ask rhetorically. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turn up slightly. He turns to continue examining the body. John frowns in confusion.

"What about this morning—those letters you were looking at?" Sherlock asks John.

"Bills," John answers. Sherlock gently pries Van Coon's mouth open and pulls out a small, black, origami flower from inside. Air hisses out of Van Coon's mouth at the same time, and I grimace.

"Yes," Sherlock says. "He was being threatened."

"Bag this up, will you…" I hear one of the D.I.'s from the yard order.

"Not by the gas board," John mutters as Sherlock lifts an evidence bag and places the flower into it.

"…And see if you can get prints off this glass," I hear the D.I. call, even closer than before. He walks into the room and I recognize him as D.I. Dimmock.

"Ah, Sergeant," Sherlock greets, walking towards him. "We haven't met." Sherlock offers his hand, but Dimmock puts his hands on his hips.

"Yeah, I know who you are," he nearly snaps, "and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence." Sherlock lowers his hand and gives Dimmock the evidence bag.

"I've phoned Lestrade," Sherlock says. "Is he on his way?"

"Lestrade's on vacation right now, Sherlock," I interject, turning to Dimmock. "Hello, Detective Inspector. It's…Dimmock, isn't it?" I ask, pretending I'm not sure. I have a theory I'd like to test, and to do that, I have to flirt a little. "I'm guessing you're in charge today?" Dimmock turns to look at me and instantly his whole demeanor shifts.

"Kat Wilson," he greets, smiling. "Should've known you'd be here with _him_." Sherlock looks at us in surprise, then turns to look at John, who is _also_ surprised. Dimmock and I walk into the living room, chatting. Sherlock and John follow behind us. Dimmock sighs.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide," he says.

"That does seem the only explanation of all the facts," John agrees as Sherlock takes his gloves off.

"Wrong," Sherlock and I argue at the same time, before Sherlock continues: "It's one _possible_ explanation of _some_ of the facts." He turns to Dimmock. "You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" Dimmock asks.

"The wound was on the _right_ side of his head," Sherlock answers.

"And?" Dimmock asks, exasperated.

"Van Coon was left-handed," I respond. Sherlock nods before miming to demonstrate the point, pretending to try and point a gun to his right temple with his left hand.

"Requires quite a bit of contortion," Sherlock states.

"Left-handed?" Dimmock asks.

"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice," Sherlock answers sarcastically. "All you have to do is look around his flat. Kat?" I nod.

"Coffee table on the left-hand side," I explain, pointing to the table beside the sofa. "Coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: Habitually used the ones on the left…" I trail off, pointing to the sockets. "Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left." I pause. "D'you want me to go on?"

"I forgot Lestrade said you were absolutely brilliant," Dimmock says, looking at me with admiration. I flush slightly, embarrassed by the compliment. Sherlock glares at Dimmock and John shakes his head.

"No," John says, "I think you've covered it."

"Oh, might as well," Sherlock says. "We're almost at the bottom of the list." He points to the kitchen. "There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left."

"Huh," I say. "Missed that one." Sherlock looks at me and I shrug. He turns to Dimmock with an impatient, almost angry, look on his face.

"It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the _right_ side of his head," he says, and I shake my head. John is left-handed, but _he_ shoots with his right. "Conclusion: Someone broke in here and murdered him. _Only _explanation of _all_ the facts." "But the gun: Why…" Dimmock tries to argue with him.

"He was _waiting _for the killer," Sherlock interrupts, walking towards his coat and scarf. "He'd been threatened."

"What?" Dimmock asks, surprised.

"Today at the bank," I answer. "Sort of a warning. We're still trying to figure it out."

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," Sherlock says.

"And the bullet?" Dimmock asks.

"Went through the open window," Sherlock answers.

"Oh, come on!" Dimmock shouts. "What are the chances of _that_?!"

"Wait until you get the ballistics report," Sherlock responds. "The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it."

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?" Dimmock asks. Sherlock pushes his hand into his glove.

"Good!" He answers condescendingly, and I shake my head again. "You're finally asking the right questions." He turns and flounces out of the flat. John and I look at each other before John turns and follows Sherlock out. I turn to Dimmock.

"Sorry about him," I say. "He's… a bit of a drama queen."

"Are you busy tonight?" he asks, surprising me.

"Um… I'm not sure. Might go out," I answer.

"Well," he responds, shuffling his feet slightly. "Maybe you could join me for dinner?" I look at him for a minute before shaking my head.

"Sorry," I answer, and he frowns. "I'm just not interested."

"Yeah, didn't think you would be," he says. "I heard about what happened between you and Sean." I nod.

"Well, I better get going," I say. "Sherlock will only wait so long before he'll leave without me." I walk towards the door, waving.

"See you later, Kat."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The three of us walk into a very fancy restaurant. The Maître d' holds us up until I show him my badge and ask for Sebastian. He points us in the direction of Sebastian's table. We walk through the restaurant.

"…And he's left trying to sort of cut his hair with a fork," Sebastian says, finishing a joke as we walk up to the table, "which of course can never be done!"

"It was a threat," Sherlock says. "That's what the graffiti meant."

"I'm kind of in a meeting," Sebastian says before glancing at me. "Can you make an appointment with my secretary?" I pull my badge out of my pocket again.

"I don't think this can wait," I say, flashing the badge to the men at the table. "Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders—someone who worked in your office—was killed."

"What?" he asks stunned. I put the badge back in my pocket.

"Van Coon," John answers. "The police are at his flat."

"Killed?" Sebastian asks.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," Sherlock apologizes sarcastically. "Still wanna make an appointment?"

"Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?" I ask with my eyebrow raised. Sebastian puts his glass of water down and nervously runs his finger inside his shirt collar. He apologizes to the men around the table and excuses himself, leading us towards a small alcove at the side of the restaurant. I turn to him when we stop.

"Tell us about Edward Van Coon," I say, going into interrogation mode.

"Harrow; Oxford," he answers. "Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while, so…"

"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John finished.

"Lost five mill in a single morning," Sebastian says, and I whistle. "Made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."

"Who'd want to kill him?" I ask.

"We all make enemies," Sebastian answered.

"You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple," John counters. Sebastian's phone beeps, signaling he has a text.

"Not usually," he says, pulling his phone out and glancing at it. "'Scuse me." He reads the text. "It's my Chairman. The police have been on to him." He glances at me. "Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."

"Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian," Sherlock says. "He was murdered."

"Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that," Sebastian counters.

"Seb," Sherlock says sternly.

"And neither does my boss," Sebastian finishes. "I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked." He turns to me again. "Are you sure I couldn't persuade you to dinner?"

"What is it with guys asking me to dinner today?" I ask instead of answering. He looks at me, waiting for an answer. "Not a chance."

"Too bad," he says, shrugging before heading back out to his meeting. John waits until he's out of earshot and turns to Sherlock.

"I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards," he jokes. I laugh as we head back out of the restaurant. When we walk by Sebastian's table, I catch Sherlock glaring at Sebastian. It confuses me. We walk out of the restaurant and he turns to me.

"Who else asked you to dinner?" he asks, clearly annoyed.

"Dimmock," I respond. "I actually felt bad for turning him down. He's not that bad." Sherlock seems to brighten up when I say I turned Dimmock down, but glowers when I finish.

"You sure are popular today," John says, laughing. I shrug.

"It's never happened before," I respond. He looks at me in shock.

"Really?" he ask and I nod.

"I was the odd child out," I answer.

"Because of your gifts," Sherlock says. I shake my head.

"Not just that," I reply. They look at me again. "Another story for another day."


	10. Another Victim and a Sticky Situation

**A/N:** _The Blind Banker _is my least favorite episode, so if it seems like the quality's not as good as the others, that's _probably_ the reason why. Also, there's a few guest characters in this episode. I'm just gonna say: I own only the things you don't recognize.

**Some notes on reviews:**

**lostfeather1:** I'm glad it made up for it. This one's not as long as the last, but it _is_ longer than the one before that. As for all the attention, let's just say it's going to be a bit of a running gag. Making Sherlock jealous helps me get through this episode.  
As for when she meets Moriarty, _well..._ Spoilers! I'll just say that it will be Legen-_wait for it_-dary!

**SirOlives:** I'm glad you like the story. It's not going to be exactly canon. There _will_ be little sub-plots that are of my own design. In fact, the plans I have for between the end of the pool scene and the hiker and the car are going to be a bit of a cross-over. Bet you can't guess which show I'm doing it with!

**Vedra9:** Thank you! It's reviews like this that keep me going. I got so motivated by your review, I knocked out another chapter! Kat's past is _extremely _complicated. Basically her life before moving sucked, but only I know just how bad. Jealous!Sherlock makes this episode just a bit more bearable for me. As for Sherlock's "note", Kat's going to bring up her vision with Mycroft, hoping he can do something to prevent it, but Mycroft isn't going to react the way she expects.

**NEW CHAPTER! WOOHOO!**

* * *

Another Victim and a Sticky Situation

The next day, I come down to find John just returned from his interview. Sherlock is sitting in one of the dining chairs staring at photographs surrounding the mirror on the wall. John drops his jacket into his chair as I sit in mine.

"I said 'could you pass me a pen?'" Sherlock says before either John or I can speak.

"What?" John asks. "When?"

"'Bout an hour ago," Sherlock answers. I roll my eyes as John sighs.

"Didn't notice he'd gone out, then," I respond as John picks a pen up from the table next to his chair and—without even looking at Sherlock—tosses the pen in Sherlock's direction. I watch in awe as Sherlock—_without even looking_—catches the pen in his left hand. John walks over to the mirror and takes a closer look at the photos.

"Yeah," he says, "I went to see about a job at that surgery you told me about."

"How was it?" I ask.

"It's great," he answers absently. "She's great." I smirk.

"Who?" Sherlock asks.

"The job," John answers, turning to look at Sherlock.

"'She'?" Sherlock continues. John looks slightly embarrassed.

"…It," he replies. I laugh as Sherlock looks at him suspiciously for a moment. He then jerks his head to the right, gesturing to his laptop.

"Here, have a look," he says.

"Hmm?" John hums, walking over to the table and looking at the web page. I stand up and head over to stand next to him, skimming the news article. "The intruder who can walk through walls."

"Happened last night," Sherlock responds. "Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside—exactly the same as Van Coon." John straightens up and looks at Sherlock while I continue reading the article.

"God," John says. "You think…"

"He's killed another one," Sherlock and I say at the same time. John stares at us blankly. "What?" John shakes his head.

"You two do that a lot," he says. Sherlock and I look at each other then turn back to John.

"Do what?" we ask simultaneously. John points at us, smirking.

"That," he answers. "The talking at the same time." He turns to grab his coat again. "Now come on. I may not be a genius or a psychic, but even _I_ know we have to go to Scotland Yard." He heads out the door. Sherlock and I look at each other before I shrug and walk towards the door. I hear Sherlock sigh and glance back at him as he gets up and follows behind, grabbing his coat and scarf along the way. We walk out the door and onto the street. Just as I reach the bottom of the steps, someone runs into me, knocking me over.

"Sorry!" I hear a man's voice say before I see a hand outstretched in front of me. I look up at the arm attached and find a funny looking man in a bowtie and a fez. There's something about him, but I can't place it. I tilt my head at him and take his hand, letting him pull me up.

"Thanks," I mutter, brushing dust off of my pants.

"Kat?" he asks, looking at me curiously. He opens his mouth to speak again but is cut off.

"Doctor!" a distinctly Scottish voice calls. We both look towards the voice. Two women and a man are running towards us: One woman is ginger; the other has sandy blond hair like the man.

"Gotta run," he says. "Amy's trying to steal my fez so River can destroy it with her blaster again. Rory tried talking them down, but… Well, you can see how well that worked." He turns to run from the ginger—Amy. "Later, Kat!" He runs down the street, the two women hot on his heels. The man—Rory—slows to a stop next to me.

"Sorry 'bout them," he says and I nod. "They're…"

"A handful?" I ask, smiling. He nods. "I can tell." He laughs. "You'd better go catch them. I'm not sure the two of them will stop at _just_ the fez." His eyes widen.

"I'm not sure you're wrong," he responds. "I'd…better go. Later!" I wave as he runs off.

"Kat," John calls, and I turn towards him and Sherlock. They're sitting in a taxi waiting for me. "Any time you'd like to join us?" He smirks slightly. I huff and walk over, stepping into the car.

"Scotland Yard, please," I tell the cabbie. Sherlock and John look at me. "What?"

"Who was that?" Sherlock asks.

"I don't know," I answer, shaking my head.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Dimmock sits at his desk with his arms folded. He glances at me in exasperation while Sherlock types something into his laptop.

"Brian Lukis," Sherlock says. "Freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat…" He turns the laptop around to show Dimmock the webpage from earlier. "…Doors locked from the inside."

"You've gotta admit, it's similar," John adds as Dimmock scowls at the computer. "Both men killed by someone who can…walk through solid walls."

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another City suicide?" Sherlock asks. Dimmock squirms, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock looks up, exasperated, and sighs dramatically. _Drama queen._ "You _have_ seen the ballistics report, I suppose?"

"Mmm," Dimmock hums, nodding.

"And the shot that killed him: Was it fired from his own gun?" Sherlock asks.

"No," Dimmock answers reluctantly.

"No," Sherlock replies. "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel." Dimmock glares back at Sherlock silently.

"Sherlock," I say, nudging him aside before turning and looking at Dimmock. "Detective Inspector, what my _charming_ friend is saying is…" I pause, lean forward and lower my voice. I know how the D.I.s get competitive about cases. "We've just handed you a murder enquiry." I nod towards the computer before finishing a bit louder and smiling. "Could we have five minutes in his flat, please?" Dimmock blinks and nods. "Thank you." I turn to Sherlock. "Being polite has its advantages, Sherlock." Sherlock glares at me and John laughs.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The ride to Lukis' flat is silent. Sherlock glares out the window the entire time. When we get inside the building, Dimmock leads us down a narrow hallway to a door with police tape in front of it. He opens the door and Sherlock ducks under the tape before going up the stairs, Dimmock following close behind. I pull John aside.

"John, did I do something to make Sherlock all cross?" I ask. He looks at me blankly before busting out laughing. "What?!" He takes a minute to calm down, wiping his eyes.

"You don't see it?" he asks.

"See what?" I ask, tilting my head in confusion. He shakes his head.

"If you don't see it, I'm certainly not gonna tell you," he answers, turning away to head up the stairs.

"What? But John…" I argue, but he holds his hand out in front of me, cutting me off.

"Not. Telling. And that's final. If you wanna talk to me when you figure it out, I'll be there, but for now," he says, grinning mischievously towards the end, "I will enjoy knowing something that the psychic of our little band doesn't."

"Psychics can't see everything," I mutter, heading up the stairs. John laughs again.

As we walk up the stairs, a book catches my eye. I pick it up and see the date stamp.

"We have to find out what connects these two men," I hear Sherlock say. I step onto the landing just as Sherlock steps by the stairs. I hand him the book before turning and heading back down the stairs. I walk out of the building and hail a taxi just as Sherlock and John walk out.

"West Kensington Library," Sherlock says to the cabbie once we're all in. I turn to Sherlock.

"Kensington?" I ask and Sherlock nods. "Wouldn't happen to be the same Kensington Sebastian brought up yesterday, would it?" The corners of Sherlock's mouth turn down slightly at the mention of Sebastian.

"I keep forgetting you're American," John interrupts and I turn to him. He shrugs. "The Kensington family are really rich. And they should be, 'cause they're the lead producer of tea in the country and are somewhat royal. The current Head of Family, Alexander Kensington, is the oldest son of Princess Margaret, who's the Queen's younger sister." I nod. "He and his wife, Selena, had a daughter, Katherine, in 1988. A few months after her birth, she was kidnapped. No one's seen her since."

"Until recently," Sherlock adds. "Lately there have been quite a few young women stepping forward claiming to be the missing heiress. None so far have proven to be her." He looks at me curiously. "Kat, what's your full given name?"

"Oh, come on," John interrupts. "You don't think she's the missing heiress, do you? I mean, she's American!"

"I don't mind, John," I tell him before turning to Sherlock. "My full given name is Elizabeth Kaitlyn Wilson. I go by Kat because, growing up, I refused to be called anything else."

"We're here," the cabbie calls from the front, interrupting our conversation. I look up to see that we have, in fact, arrived. We step out of the cab and I pay the cabbie.

"So why's the library named after them if they're in the tea business?" I ask as we walk inside.

"They donated quite a sum of money some years back," Sherlock answers. "The library was about to go down, and in gratitude for the donation, they renamed it." I nod as we step onto an escalator. Sherlock heads over to one of the many computers set out to help people find what they're looking for and checks the reference number on the books spine. "Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died." We step away from the computer and Sherlock leads us to the correct shelf. He and I start examining the books in front of us while John takes the shelf opposite.

"Sherlock, Kat," John says and we turn towards him. Sherlock reaches into the shelf and starts pulling more books out, revealing the same graffiti from the bank office on the shelf. Sherlock takes some pictures of the paint before the three of us leave the library without another word and head back to Baker Street.

When we get back to the flat, Sherlock adds photos of the shelf to the photos from earlier. The three of us stand in front of the fireplace, looking at the pictures.

"So, the killer goes to the bank," Sherlock starts, "leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. Hours later, he dies."

"The killer finds Lukis at the library," John continues. "He writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen; Lukis goes home."

"Late that night, he dies too," I finish.

"_Why_ do they die?" John asks as Sherlock runs his fingers over the line painted across the portrait.

"Only the cipher can tell us," I answer as Sherlock thoughtfully taps his finger against the photo. His expression sharpens.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The three of us walk through Trafalgar Square towards the National Gallery. I buy a coffee along the way—Audrey's addiction is spreading, it seems—and take a sip before talking to John.

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John," I say. "From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the chip-and-PIN machine you had a row with; cryptography is a part of everything."

"Yes," John responds, "okay, but…"

"…But it's all computer generated," Sherlock finishes. "Electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."

"Where are we headed?" John asks. I take another sip.

"I need to ask some advice," Sherlock answers, and I choke.

"What?!" John asks, smiling in disbelief as he tries to help me breathe again. "Sorry?!" Sherlock looks at him darkly.

"You heard me perfectly," he says. "I'm not saying it again."

"You _cough_ need _cough_ advice?" I ask. Sherlock looks at me with some slight concern. I take another sip of my coffee to help the last sip go down. It works, and I can breathe again.

"On painting, yes," Sherlock answers. "I need to talk to an expert." Sherlock leads us towards the entrance and then turns sharply to walk around the front. We head towards the back of the building to find a young man spray-painting the wall with a can in both hands.

"Part of a new exhibition," the young man says, not looking at us.

"Interesting," Sherlock says in a tone that says it's anything but.

"I call it 'Urban Bloodlust Frenzy'," the young man responds, chuckling.

"Catchy," John says, deadpan.

"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner," the young man says glancing to Sherlock. "Can we do this while I'm workin'?" Sherlock takes his phone from his pocket and holds it out to the young man, who turns around and tosses one of the spray cans to me. He then takes the phone from Sherlock and scrolls through the pictures.

"Know the author?" Sherlock asks.

"Recognize the paint," the young man answers. "I'd be willin' to tell ya if your pretty friend would like to get take-away with me." Sherlock and I both glare at him. "Alright, alright. It's like Michigan: Hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."

"What about the symbols: D'you recognize them?" Sherlock asks. The young man squints at the pictures.

"Not even sure it's a proper language," he answers.

"Two men have been murdered, Raz," Sherlock replies. "Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."

"What, and this is all you've got to go on?" Raz asks. "It's hardly much, now, is it?"

"Are you gonna help us or not?" Sherlock asks, irritated.

"I'll ask around," Raz answers.

"Somebody _must_ know something about it," Sherlock responds.

"Oi!" A voice calls out. The four of us look round and see two Community Support Officers hurrying towards us. Sherlock instantly grabs his phone from Raz and runs off in the opposite direction, John following close behind him, while Raz drops his spray can, kicks his bag towards me and runs after Sherlock and John. By the time I realize they've left, I'm still standing there with a spray can in my hand. I turn to the two officers.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" one of them asks me. "This gallery is a listed public building."

"Okay, hold on here," I say. "This can isn't mine. You've just seen three men run from here. It belongs to one of them. If I were guilty of _anything_, I would have run off, too. I wouldn't stand here, waiting to get caught."

"Maybe if you were an idiot," the second officer suggests.

"Excuse me? I'll have you know that I am a detective for Scotland Yard, working on a case for Detective Inspector Dimmock," I glare at them. "I'll also have you know that if you check the surveillance tape from the camera behind me, you'll see I had _nothing_ to do with the paint on the wall. _And_, if you'll check the cans in the bag for prints, you won't find any of mine on them."

"Alright, say we believe you," the first officer says trying to calm me down. "What's a detective doing talking to a vandal, anyway."

"Two men have been murdered," I explain, and their eyes widen. "Both men were threatened by the murderer with graffiti in yellow spray-paint. My partners and I were asking the vandal, Raz, if he recognized the tag or the paint." The two officers nod.

"Okay, but you'll have to come with us," the first officer says. "We've just got to verify your story." I nod as they lead me to the awaiting car.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

I walk into 221B to find Sherlock standing in front of the fireplace with a book in his hand. The mirror is now almost completely covered. I hear John making noises in the kitchen, probably making tea. I take my coat off as I head to my chair and lay it on the seat.

"You've been a while," Sherlock says. John comes out of the kitchen with a mug in his hand.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is," I respond, shrugging. I decide to make them feel bad for abandoning me. "Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" John's jaw drops.

"Oh, God," he mutters. "Kat, I'm _really_ sorry. We didn't mean to abandon you, it just sort of happened." I fake a glare at him before sighing.

"It was just formalities," I say, and John visibly relaxes. "Fingerprints, charge sheet." John turns white. "Oh, and I've got to be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday."

"What?" Sherlock asks absently.

"Me, Sherlock," I answer, pretending to be angry, "in court on Tuesday. They're giving me an ASBO!" John looks down at the carpet while Sherlock continues to stare at his book. He glances up for a second and looks at me.

"You told them you worked for Scotland Yard and you were on a case," he says. "You had them check surveillance tapes and had them call Dimmock. You're not charged with anything." He turns back to his book. John looks up at me, hopeful.

"Is that true?" he asks, and I nod.

"Sorry, John," I answer. "I was trying to get Mr. Robot over there," I gesture to Sherlock, "to feel bad, but apparently that's impossible."

"I don't know about that," John says softly and I turn to him sharply.

"What?" I ask. He shakes his head. Sherlock slams his book shut, causing John to jump.

"This symbol: I can't place it," Sherlock says, annoyed. He puts the book down and walks over to his coat. He grabs John's and hands it to him. "I need you two to go to the police station, ask about the journalist." He steers John towards the door while I grab my coat and put it back on.

"His personal effects would've been impounded," I explain to John, seeing where Sherlock's going with this train of thought. "We need to get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us where he's been." The three of us head down the stairs and out onto the street.

"I'm gonna go and see Van Coon's P.A.. If we retrace their steps," Sherlock says.

"Somewhere they'll coincide," I finish. Sherlock walks off down the street while John hails a taxi that's coming around the corner. I glance across the street to see a Chinese woman wearing dark sunglasses taking pictures. Her camera is aimed in our direction, and I get chills.

"Scotland Yard," John says to the cabbie. I glance at them before looking back across the street. The woman is gone.

"Right," the cabbie says. John and I get into the back of the taxi and we head off.


	11. Lucky 'Kats' and Graffiti

**A/N: **Here's the new chapter! Hope you like it!

**Some notes on reviews:**

**Vedra9:** I _DID_! And trust me, there _is_ a reason for it, and it _will_ be timey-wimey. I agree: Sherlock pouting IS really adorable. And John IS loving it. I'm glad you like the story so much, but you _can_ do things while you wait for updates. You don't _have _to sit over there.

**foxchick1:** Here's the update! I'm glad you like it!

**Give me an "N"! Give me an "E"! Give me a "W"!  
Give me a "C", "H", "A", "P", "T", "E", "R"!  
What does that spell?  
NEW CHAPTER!**

* * *

Lucky 'Kats' and Graffiti

"Your friend…" Dimmock says as he rummages through a box of Lukis' things. John stands across the desk from him while I stand off to the side, looking through the photographs the police have taken of the evidence, trying to catch anything I might have missed.

"Listen: Whatever you say, I'm behind you one hundred percent," John interrupts and I smirk.

"He's an arrogant sod," Dimmock finishes.

"Well, _that_ was mild!" John responds. I chuckle under my breath. "People say a lot worse than that."

"I don't know how you and Kat put up with him," Dimmock says. I hear John laugh.

"I don't know, either," he says before lowering his voice so I won't hear. He doesn't realize how sharp my hearing really is. "By the way, nice job asking Kat to dinner." I can hear the grin in his voice. "Lestrade put you up to that?" I hear Dimmock laugh.

"Yeah, when he first told me, I thought he was nuts. But we've got a pool going now, see how long it takes the two of them," he says, and I frown. "You want in?"

"Oh, God yes," John says. I hear the rustling of papers stop and turn around to see Dimmock handing a small black book to John.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Dimmock asks as I walk over. "The journalist's diary?" John nods and takes it, flicking through it.

"Thanks," I say to Dimmock as John walks away. "See you later?" He nods and I turn to walk out with John.

We get a taxi and head to the address in the diary. I ask the taxi to drop us off across the street from it and John looks at me confused.

"So," I say, glancing at John from the corner of my eye. "They've got a pool going at Scotland Yard?" John nods nervously. "Anything interesting?"

"Oh, you know," he stalls, fishing for an answer. "Just who we'll think is going to win the World Cup."

"The FIFA World Cup?" I ask and he nods, thinking I believe him. "But John, the FIFA games don't start until June." He laughs nervously.

"We're, uh, starting early," he replies.

"Uh-huh," I respond, nodding before turning back to the window.

We reach our destination and get out of the taxi. John looks into the diary for the address, not paying attention to what's going on around him. I laugh when he bumps right into Sherlock.

"Right," John says.

"Hello, Sherlock," I greet, smiling. "Fancy seeing you here." Sherlock nods to me before going into quick-fire mode.

"Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died—whatever was hidden inside that case," he says. "I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information…"

"Sherlock," John says, trying to tell Sherlock we've got an address, but Sherlock cuts him off.

"…Credit card bills, receipts," Sherlock continues. "He flew back from China, then he came here."

"Sherlock," John says, trying again, but Sherlock cuts him off again.

"Somewhere in this street," he says. "Somewhere near. I don't know where, but mmph…." I put my hand over his mouth, smirking as he stops talking, his eyes widening slightly, before pointing across the street.

"That shop over there," I say, pointing to a tourist shop called The Lucky Cat. I pull my hand away from Sherlock's mouth as he turns to look at the shop. He turns back and frowns.

"How can you tell?" he asks. "Is this you being _special_ again?" I shake my head.

"Lukis' diary," John answers, showing Sherlock the entry in the diary. "He was here too. Wrote down the address." John turns and heads across the street.

"Come on, Sherlock," I say, walking to follow John.

We step into the shop and start looking around.

"Hello," John greets the shop keeper politely.

"You want lucky cat?" she asks.

"No, thanks," John answers. "No." I see Sherlock smirking.

"Ten pound," the shop keeper insists. "Ten pound!"

"No," John responds, smiling awkwardly. The shop keeper turns to Sherlock.

"I think your girlfriend, she will like!" she says to him, gesturing to me. I shake my head as Sherlock does the same.

"No, thank you," Sherlock says. "She's not my girlfriend. Besides, I've already got a lucky Kat." I raise my eyebrows at his pun while John laughs. Sherlock shrugs before turning to a rack with clay statues on it. John goes to look at the cats in the shop window. I head to a table in the middle of the shop. There are small, ceramic cups. They have no handles and look to be hand painted. _One of these would work well with my altar._ I pick up one of the cups and turn it over for the price. I stiffen. Much to my surprise, the symbol on the bottom is the same as the one on the wall of the bank office and the shelf at the library.

"How much is this?" I ask the shop keeper. She waves me over to check the tag.

"Fifteen pound," she answers. I smile.

"I'll take it," I say, then point to a purple lucky cat on the shelf behind her. "And that." She takes the two items and wraps them up before placing them in a bag.

"Come on, boys," I call as I head out the door. "We're done here." John and Sherlock glance at each other before following me out and we start heading down the street.

"We weren't there to shop, Kat," Sherlock admonishes. I laugh as I pull the cup out of the bag and unwrap it.

"Oh, I know," I respond. "But I saw this and I had to have it." I hand him the cup. "And besides, _you_ may have a 'lucky Kat', but I don't, so I got a Lucky Cat to make up for it." I watch as Sherlock examines the cup.

"Oh," he says after looking at the bottom. John leans over to see what Sherlock's looking at.

"The label," John says. "Exactly the same as the cipher." Sherlock hands the cup back to me and I rewrap it, putting it back in the bag.

"I know that you've figured it out, Sherlock," I say. "Care to enlighten us?" Sherlock nods.

"It's an ancient number system," he says. "Hangzhou. These days, only street traders us it. Those were numbers written on the wall at the back and at the library. Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect." He walks over to a greengrocer's which has some of its wares on display outside the shop. There are various signs for vegetables in both Chinese and English. Underneath is the cost of each item written in both Hangzhou and English.

"It's a fifteen!" John exclaims. "What we thought was the artist's tag—it's a number fifteen."

"And the blindfold—the horizontal line?" Sherlock asks, holding out a price tag. "That was a number as well." He shows us the tag: It has the horizontal line at the top, and a "₤1" underneath. He grins triumphantly. "The Chinese number one, John, Kat."

"We've found it!" John says, following Sherlock as he makes his way across the street. I turn to follow them and stop. The same Chinese woman from before is taking pictures of Sherlock and John. As I watch, someone walks in front of her, hiding her for a moment. By the time the person passes, she's gone. I feel a chill go down my spine, shake my head and turn to follow the boys.

Walking into the Chinese restaurant I saw John and Sherlock walk into, I find them sitting at a table by the front window. I sit down in the empty seat.

"What is it with you and window seats, Sherlock?" I ask, smirking. Sherlock doesn't even look at me.

"I like being able to see what's coming at me," he answers. I shrug.

"Valid point. Have you ordered yet?" I ask, turning to John. He nods.

"I ordered you a sweet and sour chicken," he answers. "That okay?"

"Perfect," I answer, smiling. I turn to Sherlock. "Did _you_ order anything?" He looks at me with a blank look. "Didn't think so." I sigh. Sherlock takes a napkin and starts writing on it. At the same time, John pulls out a small notebook and starts writing notes.

"Two men travel back from China," he says. "Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium. What did they see?"

"It's not what they saw, John," I answer. "It's what they both brought back in those suitcases."

"And you don't mean duty free," John says as a waitress walks over with two plates of food. "Thank you."

"Thanks," I say, looking for some chopsticks.

"Think about what Sebastian told us," Sherlock says. He frowns slightly at Sebastian's name and it makes me wonder. "About Van Coon—about how he stayed afloat in the market."

"Lost five million…" John starts.

"Made it back in a week," I finish. John hums.

"That's how he made such easy money," Sherlock says.

"He was a smuggler," John replies.

"A guy like him—it would have been perfect," I say. "Business man…" John nods. "…Making frequent trips to Asia."

"And Lukis was the same: A journalist writing about China," Sherlock adds and John hums again while I take another bite. "Both of them smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their drop-off."

"But why did they die?" John asks. "I mean, it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they'd finished the job?" Sherlock sits back, thinking. I swallow.

"What if one of them was light-fingered?" I ask and Sherlock smiles.

"How d'you mean?" John asks.

"Stole something," I answer. "Something from the hoard. And the killer doesn't know who took it, so he threatens them both."

"Right," John responds. Sherlock looks out the window towards the shop, then looks up to the windows above it. He looks down to the ground floor again.

"Remind me…" he says, and I look out the window to see what he's looking at. "…When was the last time that it rained?" He stands up and leaves the restaurant before either John or I could reply. John sits back in exasperation but then dutifully gets up and follows. I wave the waitress over.

"Could I get two take-away boxes for these?" I ask, gesturing to the two plates. She nods, smiling, and heads behind the counter. She comes back with the boxes and I quickly pile the food into them. I put the boxes in the bag and head out the door and across the street.

"I'm wasting my breath," John says as I walk up.

"Where's Sherlock?" I ask. John jerks his thumb in the direction of the door. "What'd he do, break in?"

"Yeah," John says. I ring the doorbell as John walks away from the door.

"Sherlock?" I call. "You okay in there?" I don't get a reply. "Just…be careful." John comes back to the door, leans down and flips the letterbox open.

"_Any_ time you want to include us," he yells angrily. He straightens up and starts pacing. "No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no one else can compete with…" he storms back to the letterbox, flips it open and shouts through it "my MASSIVE INTELLECT!" I rush to the door as he drops the letterbox again.

"John, something is _very _wrong," I say as I put my hand on the door knob, focusing on the lock. He glances up at me in concern.

"What're you doing?" he asks. I move a pin into place.

"Remember when I told you and Sherlock what I could do?" I pause, and he nods, though I can't see it. Another pin in place. "This is the Psychokinesis." The last few pins fall into place and the lock clicks. I fling the door open and run up the stairs to where I know Sherlock is being strangled. "Sherlock!"

I step onto the second floor to find a man in black rushing to the window. I chase after him, knowing Sherlock's okay, knowing John will check on him. I get to the window and look for the attacker. He's nowhere.

"Damn," I mutter, turning around when I hear Sherlock cough. I walk back to them as John helps Sherlock sit up.

"The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell," Sherlock croaks, ignoring John's frantic questions. "Somebody left here in a hurry." I kneel down in front of Sherlock.

"Somebody?" John asks.

"Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock answers, still croaky. "We have to find her." He moves to stand.

"Sit for a minute, Sherlock," I say.

"No time," he says.

"Sherlock Holmes, you will _make_ time for this," I command sternly. He looks at me with wide eyes. "Do you understand?" He nods. "Okay, hold still."

I lean forward and place my hands on either side of Sherlock's neck. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and focus. I hear Sherlock gasp as my hands start to warm. We sit that way for a full minute before I open my eyes and pull back. Sherlock stares at me in shock.

"Better?" I ask, smiling. He clears his throat and nods.

"What did I just see?" John asks confusedly. Sherlock turns slightly towards him without taking his eyes off me.

"That, John, would be one form of Psychokinesis," Sherlock answers, his voice back to normal. He looks away from me, stands up and then holds his hand out to me. I take it and pull myself up.

"What?" I turn to John.

"There are three forms of Psychokinesis, John," I start explaining. "ST, MT and LT. ST stands for Stationary Target—that's how I unlocked the door. MT stands for Moving Target: This is the most common, actually, though most people don't even realize they're doing it." John looks at me, confused. "Ever play a game of dice and need a specific combination to come up, and it _does_?" John nods. "That's because all people have the ability to use Psychokinesis. You're _willing_ the dice to land that way, and something in your mind is _making_ it happen." John nods, slightly following along. We head down the stairs. Just as we're walking out the door, I see Sherlock pick something—a folded envelope—up off the floor. "LT stands for Living Target. A lot of psychic healing is _actually_ this form of Psychokinesis. That's how I fixed Sherlock's throat."

"Okay," he says, nodding.

"So, Soo Lin Yao," I say, turning Sherlock. "I'm guessing that envelope will help us find her?" He nods, and we head off.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"When was the last time you saw her?" I ask the young man at the National Antiquities Museum, Andy Galbraith. John is standing next to me with a notepad and pen in hand, taking notes. Sherlock is pacing around the display area, glancing at the exhibits.

"Three days ago, um, here at the museum," he answers nervously. "This morning they told me she'd resigned just like that. Just left her work unfinished." I nod.

"Not something she'd do?" I ask, tilting my head to the side.

"No," Andy says adamantly, shaking his head. "Those teapots, those ceramics: They'd become her obsession. She's been working on restoring them for weeks. I can't believe that she would just abandon them."

"Maybe she was getting some…unwanted attention?" John asks, looking at Andy pointedly. Andy looks down as I shake my head.

"No, I don't think that's it," I say. All three men turn to look at me. "Call it a hunch, but I think it has something to do with her childhood." I turn to Andy. "We all have things in our pasts that we don't talk about, that we don't want anyone to know." John looks at me in concern. I look at Andy meaningfully. "If you're really interested in Soo Lin, if you _really_ care about her _that_ much, then you won't _care_ what's in her past, and you'll make sure she knows it." Andy nods, thoughtful. "Now, what was the last thing she did on her final afternoon here?"

"C'mon, I'll show you," he says before leading us away. We walk down a flight of stairs to the basement archive. Andy turns the lights on and leads us towards an opening in the stacks. "She does this demonstration for the tourists—a-a tea ceremony. So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here." He starts turning the handle, John and Sherlock standing behind Andy to look into the stacks. I keep walking, staring at a statue in the back.

"Sherlock?" I call without turning. I hear the three men walk up behind me to see what I see.

"What _is _that?" Andy asks. On the statue is the same graffiti that was at the bank and the library.

"It means we have to find Soo Lin, soon," I answer. I turn on my heel and head back to the stairs, John and Sherlock following behind.

"Wait, hold on!" Andy calls, running after us. He catches up and keeps stride next to me. "What does that graffiti have to do with Soo Lin?"

"Remember what I said about having things you don't talk about?" I ask, and Andy nods. "Well, right now is when you make a decision. Do you support her and help her carry the burden? Or do you say it's too much, and wish her happiness on her path?" Andy stops walking, looking down. Sherlock, John and I walk down the steps of the museum into the night.

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock says.

"If she's still alive," John adds.

"She is," I respond.

"Sherlock!" a voice calls. We turn to see Raz running towards us.

"Oh, look who it is," I mutter.

"Found something you'll like," Raz says when he reaches us. He jogs off and the three of us follow. We walk across Hungerford Bridge, heading towards the south side of the river. I glance behind me, feeling a chill, and see the same Chinese woman I've seen twice before. I shake my head, making a mental note to mention her to Sherlock later. This whole case has a decidedly Oriental theme to it.

Raz leads us to the South Bank Skate Park. He walks straight to the back of the park as one of the people already there does some clever jump on his pushbike.

"Dude! That was rad!" a girl calls.

"If you wanna hide a tree then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock asks rhetorically. "People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message." Raz points to a particular area on the heavily-painted walls.

"There," he says. "I spotted it earlier." On the wall are some slashes of yellow paint forming Chinese symbols. Some of it has already been painted over by other artists' tags and pictures.

"They _have_ been in here," Sherlock mutters, then turns to Raz. "And that's the exact same paint?"

"Yeah," Raz answers with a nod.

"John, Kat," Sherlock says. "If we're going to decipher this code, we're gonna need to look for more evidence." We head out of the skate park. "Split up. We'll be able to cover more ground that way." Sherlock heads off on his own while John and I look at each other.

"I'm following you," John tells me. I raise my eyebrow at him, smirking. "_He_ doesn't seem to realize how easily you'll find it, but _I've_ seen enough to never be a skeptic again. I'm sticking with you." I laugh.

"Sure, just give me a second," I reply. I close my eyes, focusing on the shape and color of the graffiti. _Got it!_ My eyes snap open. "Follow me." We start walking towards the railway lines. John starts digging through his pockets and pulls out two flashlights, handing one to me. "Thanks. Always prepared, aren't you?" He laughs.

"You never know _what_ you'll get into when you work with Sherlock Holmes," he says. "Well, maybe _you_ know."

"Maybe," I reply, laughing.

We walk in silence for a moment before I turn and look towards my left.

"John," I say, slowing to a stop. I shine my flashlight at the wall in front of us. The wall's about fifteen feet wide and is _covered_ with Chinese symbols. "Call Sherlock." I pull my phone out of my pocket and John does the same, calling Sherlock while I snap a picture of the wall. I put my phone back into my pocket while John continues to try and reach Sherlock.

"Dammit, he's not answering!" John gripes. I close my eyes and focus on Sherlock. I find him much quicker than I found the graffiti, which surprises me. I start heading back the way we came.

"Come on, John," I call. "He's not going to answer." John follows me as we jog. Moments later we find Sherlock, who is looking at the side of a parked rail freight container.

"Answer your phone! I've been calling you!" John calls out to Sherlock. Sherlock looks up at us as we head towards him. "We found it." John and I turn again, John jogging slightly behind me, letting me lead the way. I hear Sherlock catching up with us. We get back to the wall, but it's blank now. John's mouth drops open in surprise.

"It's been painted over!" he exclaims. Sherlock shines his flashlight around as John stares at the wall in disbelief. "I don't understand. It-it was here…." He stumbles backwards. "…Ten minutes ago. I _saw_ it. A whole load of graffiti! Kat lead us right to it!"

Somebody doesn't want me to see it," Sherlock murmurs. He turns and grabs the sides of John's head with both hands.

"Hey, Sherlock, what're you doing…?" John asks.

"Shhh, John, concentrate," Sherlock commands. "I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

"No, what?" John protests. "Why? Why?" Sherlock lowers his hands to hold John by the upper arms. "What are you doing?!" Sherlock starts to slowly spin them around on the spot, staring intently at John. I bite my lip trying not to laugh.

"I need you to maximize your visual memory," Sherlock says. "Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah," John answers.

"Can you remember it?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes, definitely."

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Yes!"

"How _much_ can you remember it?"

"Well, don't worry…."

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate," Sherlock cuts in. I laugh outright.

"Sherlock," I call, trying to get his attention. John looks a bit green. "I've took a picture of it. You can let John go now." John pulls himself free from Sherlock. I pull my phone out of my pocket and pull up the picture before handing it to Sherlock. Sherlock looks at John, slightly embarrassed.

"Oh." I laugh again.


	12. Mothers and Brothers

**A/N:** Big revelation in this chapter. Not that you didn't already see it coming, but now it's confirmed. And a bit more insight into Kat's past. I think you're going to love this chapter.

**Some notes on reviews:**

**lostfeather1:** Thank you, thank you. I like how they pair up, too. Here's your update! Sorry to keep you waiting.

**foxchick1:** I know, right? It's going to come up a lot. Sort of a running gag, like how "Psychics can't see everything".

**Ashe S:** Thank you! I'm glad you like it. Here's the next chapter!

**Vedra9:** Thank you! I'm glad she fits. The pool thing just came as a sudden inspiration when I wrote that part. In my head, I was all like, "Well, they guys at the yard like to take pics of Sherlock in funny situations, why _wouldn't_ they start a pool about how long it takes for him and Kat to get together." _"La-dee-da, THE CASE! Come on, John!"_ That cracks me up. Here's your update!

**And now, without further ado:**

**THE NEXT CHAPTER!**

* * *

Mothers and Brothers

We get back to Baker Street and I head up to my flat. I take the Lucky Cat out of the bag and put it on the coffee table next to the sofa. I walk to my bedroom and open my closet door, revealing the walk-in. I don't use it for clothes. I place the cup on the makeshift altar on the west side of it, taking the old cup and thanking it for letting me use it. I head back out of my closet and head to the bathroom to take a shower. Ten minutes later, I'm stepping out of the bathroom running a brush through my hair. I pull on some pajamas and glance at the clock. It's two in the morning. I set my alarm clock and go to bed.

My alarm sounds, pulling me from my nightmare of being tied to a chair in a dark room. I sit up quickly, gasping for breath, trying to calm down. I cry. I have this nightmare a lot. Every time, I hear _his_ voice. Always accusing me: _**You promised.**_ It never gets any easier. I get up and put on a pair of dark wash jeans and a black t-shirt that says "There are 10 types of people in the world: Those who understand binary and those who don't" in white. I head to the bathroom and apply a light coat of make-up, hoping to hide the fact that I've been crying. I grab my jacket and head back downstairs, hoping Sherlock and John got some sleep.

Sherlock has the new pictures printed out and stuck to the mirror. He's written the numerical values next to each symbol. He stands in front of the fireplace looking at the pictures closely. John sits at the dining table with his back to the fireplace. He looks up at me and reads my shirt.

"I don't get it," he says, and I chuckle. Sherlock glances at me, and I swear I see a hint of a smile before he frowns.

"You've been crying," he states. I smile sadly at him and shake my head as John glances up at me sharply.

"Just a bad dream," I reply. "It was a bit _too_ real for my liking." He stares at me, trying to read what the dream was about, before giving up and turning back to the fireplace. I walk up behind him and look at the pictures. John turns his back on the two of us.

"Always in pairs," I comment. Sherlock looks at me again.

"Hmm?" John hums from where he sits.

"Numbers come with partners, John," Sherlock says.

"God, I need sleep," I hear John mutter from behind us.

"Why did he paint it so near the tracks?" Sherlock asks.

"No idea," John answers tiredly.

"Thousands of people pass by there every day," Sherlock continues.

"Just twenty minutes," John mumbles. I turn to look at him. He looks exhausted.

"Of course," Sherlock breaths, realizing something. He looks at the picture of the wall, smiling triumphantly. "Of _course_! He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back." He runs his finger over the symbols.

"She, Sherlock," I say, and he looks at me blankly. "I think the ringleader of this whole thing is a woman. I've seen this Chinese woman taking pictures of us several times."

"And you didn't tell me before?" he asks.

"Never ignore a coincidence," I say, shrugging. "Unless you're busy. In which case, always ignore a coincidence."

"Coincidence? The universe is never so lazy, Kat," he responds. He turns back to the pictures. "Somewhere here in the code." He pulls three pictures off the wall and turns toward the door. "We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao."

"Come on, John," I call, heading out the door. "We probably shouldn't let him roam around alone." John follows. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"No," John answers. "Sherlock never sleeps when he's on a case. He kept me up all night trying to figure those bloody numbers out." I shake my head.

"I'll have to try and talk some sense into him," I say.

"I don't think that'll work," John responds. I cross my arms in front of me.

We walk outside and follow Sherlock into a taxi. Sherlock tells the cabbie to take us to the National Antiquities Museum. The cabbie nods and starts driving.

"Going to see Andy again?" I ask. Sherlock nods.

"Speaking of Andy," Sherlock says, focusing on me. "What were you talking about yesterday? It wouldn't have anything to do with your nightmare, would it?"

"Sherlock!" John warns. "You can't just ask her about something like that! There's a reason she said 'things we don't talk about'. She doesn't want to talk about it."

"No, John," I respond, smiling sadly. "He can ask." Sherlock visibly brightens at getting answers. "That doesn't mean I have to answer." Sherlock pouts. John laughs and I grin, glad to dodge the bullet on that one. John's right: I really _don't_ want to talk about it.

We get to the museum and are taken to the same display room as the day before. Andy's standing there, looking determined.

"I've decided," he tells me.

"And?" I ask.

"I don't _care_," he answers, and I nod. John and Sherlock look confused.

"Good," I respond, smiling.

"Two men who travelled back from China were murdered, and their killer left them messages in the Hangzhou numerals," Sherlock says, interrupting. I sigh.

"Soo Lin Yao's in danger," John continues. "Now, that cipher—it was just the same pattern as the others. He means to kill her as well."

"Look," Andy responds nervously, "I've tried everywhere: Um, friends, colleagues. I-I don't know where she's gone. I mean, she could be a thousand miles away." Sherlock turns his head, annoyed that he doesn't have another lead. As he turns his head back, though, he focuses on the display case behind me.

"What are you looking at?" John asks him. Sherlock points to the case as he walks towards it. I step to the side.

"Tell me more about those teapots," he tells Andy.

"Th-the pots were her obsession," Andy answers. "Um, they need urgent work. If-if they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to just keep making tea in them." Sherlock bends down to look more closely at the shelf.

"Yesterday, only one of those pots was shining," Sherlock responds. "Now there are two."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"I _hate_ stakeouts!" I hiss. Molly nods sympathetically, taking a sip of her drink, while Audrey laughs.

"It's a good thing they let you skip it till later tonight: You never were very patient," Audrey jokes. "Having to wait for things." She turns to Molly and whispers loudly so I can hear. "It drove her crazy. And then she'd drive _me_ crazy." Molly chuckles.

"She's good with people, though," Molly replies thoughtfully. "You _have_ to have patience with people to be able to deal with Sherlock." She turns to me. "How do you do it, Kat?" I tilt my head at her and frown.

"Do what?" I ask.

"Not let Sherlock get to you," she answers. "How do you shrug it off?" I shrug and Audrey laughs. I grin. "No, but really: How?" I lean back in my chair and think, picking out a crisp from the small bag in front of me. I sit like that for a minute, trying to figure it out.

"I don't know," I answer her finally, sitting straight again. "It just sorta…happens?" I shake my head. "I don't know."

"Maybe she's in _luurve_," Audrey suggests, laughing. I frown and throw a crisp at her, and she puts her arms up in front of her, trying to defend herself.

"I am _not_ in love!" I snap. She holds her hands up in surrender, still laughing. She grabs her travel cup and takes a sip.

"Y'know, I saw this thing on the internet the other day, about how you can tell when a person is lying," Molly says, a sneaky grin on her face. "One of the things on the list was: It's common for a liar to not use contractions when telling the lie." I glare at her, slowly grabbing another crisp. She picks her purse up and holds it in front of her. "It's also common for the liar to be over-defensive about the lie." I throw the crisp at her, but she blocks it with her purse. I lean back in my chair again and cross my arms. I glance over and see the owner of the café frowning at us in displeasure. I wave apologetically at him before turning back to Audrey and Molly.

"Are you calling me a liar?" I ask, frowning.

"No," Molly answers, putting a hand on my arm.

"We think you're in denial," Audrey continues. I glare at them and they both grin.

"I think you'd better change the subject," I threaten Audrey, "before I tell Molly about that time in tenth grade when yo-Hey!" Audrey throws one of her chips at me, cutting me off before turning to Molly and smiling.

"I don't know _what_ she's talking about," she says. Molly nods, laughing.

"You can tell you two have been friends for a long time," Molly says. Audrey and I look at each other, grinning, before turning back to Molly.

"Yep!" we respond at the same time, both of us popping the "p". Molly laughs as I spot a man in a suit walking through the door and looking around. _Mycroft_. Just as his name passes through my mind, the man in the suit looks over at our table and starts walking towards us.

"Miss Wilson?" he asks. I look up at him.

"Taking me to your leader?" I counter. Molly and Audrey look back and forth between the man and me as he nods. "Fine, I have something for him." I think back what I heard before at the bank. I shiver slightly and turn to Molly and Audrey.

_**"Goodbye, Kat."**_

"Sorry, guys," I say, standing up. "Gotta run. Sherlock's protective big brother needs to see me." Molly nods. She knows about my agreement with Mycroft. I start walking behind the man.

"I'll tell you later," I hear Molly whisper to Audrey as I step out the door. I walk to the car where the woman with wavy, brown hair is already sitting.

Five minutes into the ride, my phone beeps. I pull it out and see I have a new text from Molly.

**If Mycroft disrespects you, make sure you let him know that you have a friend who is, quite possibly, one of the only people in the world who could kill him and not leave any forensic evidence. –MH**

I laugh before sending off a response.

**I'll be sure to remember that ;) –KW**

Just then my phone beeps again.

**On your way to see my arch-enemy? –SH**

** Yeah, how'd you know? –KW**

**Your friend, Annie, told me. She said you'd been kidnapped by a man in a suit and taken away by a very expensive car. –SH**

**Her name is Audrey, Sherlock. –KW**

**Don't care. –SH**

I chuckle under my breath but don't answer. I pull a game up on my phone. It's going to be a very long ride. Sure enough, an hour later, we pull up in front of a very large house in the middle of nowhere. I look out the window to see Mycroft standing at the front door. The driver stops the car, gets out and steps around to open my door. I step out of the car and head towards Mycroft.

"Much nicer than a warehouse," I comment. He smiles, but it looks strained. _Wonder what THAT's about._ I don't have long to wonder, though, when the door opens and a man and woman step out. The woman practically tackles Mycroft and hugs him. I smile.

"Mikey! It's so good of you to visit," she says as she lets him go.

"'Mycroft' is the name you gave me, Mother," he responds. My smile turns sad: My mother would _never_ greet me like that. "If you couldn't possibly struggle all the way to the end, you should have named me something else." She hits him lightly on the arm before turning to me.

"And _this_ must be Kat," she says, holding her arms out and giving me the choice. I step forward into the hug.

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Holmes," I reply as we step apart. I hold out my hand to the man behind her. "Mr. Holmes." He takes my hand. I turn back to Mrs. Holmes, lean in and whisper conspiratorially. "You know, Mycroft over there calls you 'mummy' when he's talking about you." She looks at me.

"Oh, does he?" she replies loudly. Mycroft looks at us in suspicion. I smile sweetly at him. "Well, no use standing out here in the damp. Come in, come in." Mrs. Holmes ushers us into the house and into a sitting room. "Would you like some water, dear?" I take off my jacket and sit down on the sofa, folding my jacket and holding it in my lap.

"Yes, thank you," I answer. She takes the pitcher from the table and pours a glass. She hands it to me and I take a sip. I turn to Mycroft. "So, to what do I owe the honor of meeting your lovely parents?" He shifts uncomfortably.

"He seems to be under the impression that you're perfect for Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes answers instead as she sits next to her husband on the sofa across from me. Mycroft is sitting in an armchair to the right of me.

"Mother!" Mycroft exclaims. She turns to him with her eyebrow raised. He looks down and I chuckle. She turns back to me.

"Frankly, I agree with him," She finishes. I stare at her blankly before closing my eyes and groaning. I lean forward and put my head in my hands. I mumble under my breath. "What was that, dear?" I sit up again.

"Why does everybody ship me and Sherlock?" I ask.

"Everybody?" Mrs. Holmes asks.

"Ship?" Mycroft asks at the same time. Mrs. Holmes turns to him.

"It's short for 'romantic relationship'," she says. I groan again. I hear a light chuckling and look over to see Mr. Holmes enjoying the entire situation. "To 'ship' a couple means you really want them to get together." She turns back to me. "Everybody?" I nod.

"My friends, the guys at the Yard," I list. "Even _John_ ships us, apparently." Mrs. Holmes laughs.

"That's because we can all see how perfect you are for him, even if you can't," she responds, chuckling. I sigh in resignation. "Here, let me go get some photos of when the boys were little." She stands up and walks out of the room, ignoring Mycroft begging her not to do it. A minute later she comes back with a photo album. She sits down next to me and flips it open to the first page. It's a photo of Mycroft as a baby.

Half an hour of embarrassing stories and Mycroft getting annoyed later, we get to Sherlock's baby picture. We look through the photos from when he was growing up, and I can't help but feel he looks familiar.

"Here he is with Mycroft in America," Mrs. Holmes comments on one picture. "Mycroft had just finished school, so we going on a trip to celebrate." She flips the page. "Mycroft ended up getting hurt badly, and we had to go to the hospital." She points to one picture in particular. "That's when Sherlock met _her_." She hands the album to me so I can get a closer look. _No. Way._ "She didn't talk much, just told Sherlock to follow his dreams and whatnot." The picture was taken from the doorway of the hospital room. "Told him he could be whatever he wanted, that he didn't have to follow Mikey into the Government." Sherlock is sitting in the chair next to the bed, _laughing_ at something the little girl in the bed was saying. "We never did find out what she was there for, but we know it was traumatic." I nod, numbly. My hands start shaking and I hand the album back to her. "Kat?" I turn to look at her, and I feel a tear run down my cheek. "Oh, sweetie, what is it?" I shake my head, trying to clear it from the horrible memories.

"That little girl in the picture," I say. Mrs. Holmes nods. "It's me." They stare at me in shock. "I should go." I stand up and tug my jacket on. "I'm sorry I have to run out on you, Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Holmes." I start walking to the door. "Sherlock and John are waiting for me at the museum, and if I don't leave now, I won't make it." I turn just before I step outside. The three of them are still just sitting there. Mr. Holmes and Mycroft are still in shock. Mrs. Holmes smiles at me sadly. I sigh. "It _was_ traumatic, and I _really_ don't like talking about it, much less remembering." Mrs. Holmes nods.

"Go ahead, Kat. We understand," she responds, smiling warmly. "I do hope you'll visit again, though." I smile and nod.

"Thanks. I will."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"Where have you been?" John asks as I step out of the night and into the dimly-lit museum.

"Mycroft," I answer shortly, walking past him.

"Ah," he says, following me. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," I reply, heading towards the display room. "I'm fine."

"Uh-huh," he responds. "Sure." I stop and turn sharply, making him nearly crash into me.

"Are you saying you don't believe me?" I ask. He shakes his head and holds his hands up in front of him.

"Nope!" he answers. "I'm not _saying_ anything." I raise my eyebrow at him and he grins at me. I turn around sharply again and walk towards the display room. Walking through the door, I find Sherlock talking to Andy. Actually, it's more like arguing.

"How's it going?" I ask as I walk in.

"Sherlock refuses to let me stay and help!" Andy shouts. I stare at him blankly before sticking my pinkie finger in my ear.

"Sorry? I couldn't hear you," I joke. He looks down, abashed. "Frankly, I agree with him." He looks back up at me sharply. "The man after Soo Lin is _dangerous_. We'll have enough on our hands, protecting ourselves _and_ Soo Lin." I cross my arms as I see him consider my words. "I hate to sound harsh, but you'll only get in our way." Andy sighs and turns around, walking away. I glance at Sherlock, who's just been watching me since I walked in. Andy turns around again and stares at me intensely.

"Can you keep her safe?" he questions. I nod. "Can you promise me that?" I tense and look down.

_**"I promise. I won't let them hurt you."**_ I look back up at Andy.

"I swear," I promise determinedly. "I _will_ keep Soo Lin safe." Andy watches me for a moment before nodding and walking away.

"Alright," he says, grabbing his coat and heading for the door. "I'll leave you to it, then." He leaves. John, Sherlock and I stand in silence for a moment.

"Well," John says, "that was…fun." I turn and stare at him blankly.

"Are you…" Sherlock starts. I move to look at him. "Okay?" I raise my eyebrow and he shakes his head. "Right, stupid question. Don't know where that came from. Clearly you're not." He turns to head out of the room for somewhere to wait and hide. I turn to John.

"What was that?" I ask. He shakes his head.

"It's like…it's hard to explain," he says and we start following Sherlock. "It's like he's not as much of a sociopath as he claims." I tilt my head at him. "I could see it, when he first got that text from your friend?" I nod. "He got…concerned. I'd almost say worried. It's like he _feels_ things around you." I shake my head. "No, really! The other day, when you got arrested?" I nod. "He actually started to feel bad until he started deducing exactly what would happen to you." We catch up to Sherlock in one of the stacks in the basement archive. Sherlock and John watch me as I focus on the entire museum, waiting for Soo Lin Yao to make her appearance. Just when Sherlock starts to complain about unpunctual witness, I turn and head out of the archive and head towards one of the restoration rooms, John and Sherlock hot on my tail. We get to the door and I stop, letting Sherlock lead the way. He steps in and I follow close behind, hanging back behind some of the other tables to not alarm Soo Lin. I watch as she pours tea into a pair of tea cups and Sherlock sneaks up on her.

"Fancy a biscuit with that?" Sherlock asks her from about three feet away. I focus on the teapot quickly and make it hover in the air before it can hit the floor.

"Careful," I call from my spot, walking towards the pair. "That's centuries old. You don't want to break it." Sherlock steps forward, picks the teapot up from its hover and hands it back to Soo Lin. As she takes it, he reaches out and flicks a switch on the desk, turning some lights on underneath the glass surface. He smiles slightly at her.

"Hello," he says as John walks into the room. I walk towards a table and pull out a chair.

"We'd like a word," I say, "Miss Yao." She looks at me and I smile warmly. She hesitates before sitting at the table next to me.

"You saw the cipher," she says, and the three of us nod. "Then you know he is coming for me."

"You've been clever to avoid him so far," Sherlock comments.

"I had to finish," Soo Lin responds. "To finish this work. It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

"Who is he?" Sherlock asks. "Have you met him before?" Soo Lin nods.

"When I was a girl, living back in China," she answers. "I recognize his…'signature'."

"The cipher," Sherlock interrupts.

"Only _he_ would do this," she responds. "Zhi Zhu."

"Zhi Zhu?" John asks.

"The Spider," Sherlock answers. Soo Lin lifts her right foot up on her left knee and takes her shoe off. On the bottom of her heel is a black tattoo of a lotus flower inside a circle.

"You know this mark?" she asks.

"Yes," Sherlock answers. "It's the mark of a Tong."

"Hmm?" John hums in confusion.

"Crime syndicate?" I ask and Sherlock nods.

"An ancient on based in China," he answers. John and I both nod in understanding and turn back to Soo Lin.

"Every foot soldier bears the mark," Soo Lin says. "Everyone who hauls for them."

"'Hauls'?" John asks.

"She was a smuggler, John," I respond softly. Soo Lin lowers her head and puts her shoe back on.

"I was fifteen," she explains. "My parents were dead. I had no livelihood; no way of surviving day to day except to work for the bosses."

"Who are they?" Sherlock asks.

"They are called the Black Lotus," she answers. "By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds' worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong." John looks at her in shock. "But I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England." She smiles. "They gave me a job here. Everything was good: A new life."

"Then he came looking for you," I state.

"Yes," Soo Lin replies. She swallows before continuing tearfully. "I had hoped after five years, maybe they would have forgotten me. But they never really let you leave. A small community like ours—they are never very far away." I lean back and grab a tissue from the table. I hand it to her and she uses it to wipe her tears. "He came to my flat. He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen."

"And you've no idea what it was?" John asks.

"I refused to help," Soo Lin answers.

"So you knew him well when you were living back in China?" John continues. Soo Lin nods.

"Oh yes," she answers, glancing at Sherlock and then looking at me. "He's my brother." I close my eyes at those words. "Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus, or starve on the streets like beggars." I open my eyes again. "My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan—the Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting." Sherlock pulls the photographs out of his pocket and lays them on the table.

"Can you decipher these?" he asks. Soo Lin leans forward and points to the mark beside the portrait.

"These are numbers," she answers.

"Yes, we know," Sherlock responds. Soo Lin points at another photograph.

"Here: The line across the man's eyes—it's the Chinese number one," she says. Sherlock points to the first photo.

"And this one is fifteen," he says. "But what's the code?"

"All the smugglers know it," she answers. "It's based upon a book…" Just then almost all the lights cut out. Soo Lin looks up in fear. Sherlock straightens up and looks around sharply. "He's here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me." Sherlock races across the room

"Sh-Sherlock," John calls. "Sherlock, wait!" Sherlock runs out of the room. John turns to me and Soo Lin.

"Go, John," I say. "He's gonna need the help." John nods and runs after Sherlock. I turn to Soo Lin, taking her hand. She turns to the table and grabs one of the photographs and a small book. "Come here." I lead her across the room towards one of the cupboards as we hear gunshots. "Get in." She kneels down and sits in the cupboard, leaving enough room for me to sit next to her. I close the door behind me.

"He will find me here," she whispers, opening the book and starting to decipher the picture.

"I made a promise to Andy that I'd keep you safe," I respond quietly. She looks up at me in shock.

"Andy?" she asks. I nod.

"He cares about you," I answer. "A lot." I look at the door where I can tell Zhi Zhu has just entered. "When this is all over, you should get a drink with him." She looks at me thoughtfully before smiling. We hear a footstep from the room outside and Soo Lin stiffens. "When the gun goes off, pretend to be dead." She looks at me in confusion before nodding. She takes a shaky breath and slowly opens her door and crawls out. I see her crawl to the edge of the desk and peer over the top of it before slowly standing up. I close my eyes and focus on the entire restoration room. In my mind's eye, I see the gun he'll use to kill her. I focus on that and on her knees. I hear her greet him softly. I hear him pull the gun on her and hear him start to pull the trigger. The moment the gun fires, I _move _it over to the left just enough to miss her, and I _move_ her knees hard, knocking her back. I hear him walk up to her and pause before I hear him running, hearing other footsteps in the distance coming towards us. I crawl out of the cupboard and head to Soo Lin, helping her up.

"They'll think you're dead now," I tell her as she brushes herself off. "They won't think to come to you again. You can be free of that fear. You'll need to lay low, though, until we take care of them." She looks at me, eyes wide, before nodding.

"I will go to Andy," she responds.

"He's a keeper," I reply, nodding. She smiles. "Go on. I'll take care of things here." She turns and runs the opposite direction of the other footsteps. John comes running into the room. He stops at the door and slowly enters. He walks towards me and looks around. Just then, Sherlock bursts into the room.

"Are you okay?" he asks as soon as he sees me. He actually sounds worried.

"Yeah, fine," I answer. "Just saving lives and stopping bad guys, y'know?" He walks towards me and examines me, making sure I'm actually okay. I see him relax a bit as I smile at him. I turn towards the door. "C'mon, we need to get to Scotland Yard." I walk out of the room and smile as the two of them follow me.

* * *

**A/N:** I _couldn't_ kill Soo Lin Yao. I always felt bad for her. She didn't really need to die. Then I realized, from a plot standpoint, she kinda did. If she'd stayed alive, she could have told Sherlock and John which book to use, or deciphered the rest of the message. So I made my own little solution. With the gang being watched by Shan, if Soo Lin were to help any more, the Black Lotus would realize she isn't dead, and they'd probably go after her again. So she needs to lay low. There's my logic. Hope you liked.


	13. Mental Exercises

**A/N:** I'm sorry. I am _so_ sorry. I've had writer's block for FOREVER! Anyway, here's the new chapter.

**Some notes on reviews:**

**foxchick1:** Yep!

**Vedra9:** Your reviews always make me smile. Got a new T-shirt for you. Hope you like the new chapter. (And, please, keep being greedy)

**Woo-hoo!**

* * *

Mental Exercises

"What happened to Soo Lin?" John asks. I turn away from the taxi window and look at him. Sherlock sits next to him, and even though he's looking at his phone, I can tell he's listening.

"She's safe," I answer, smiling. "She's with Andy." John nods.

"And her brother?" he asks.

"The Black Lotus won't bother her again: They think she's dead," I respond. John's eyes widen.

"How?"

"Bit of Psychokinesis and Soo Lin's acting skills," I answer. "I shifted the gun _just_ slightly when he fired and pulled her knees out from under her." Sherlock looks up.

"Clever," he comments, turning back to his phone. I tilt my head at him, eyes wide.

"Was…" I start before turning to John. "Was that a…_compliment_?" John just looks at me in shock.

"Well," Sherlock responds quickly. I turn to him again. "It's not what _I _would have done." John looks at him in disbelief before shaking his head and turning to his window.

"No, _clearly_ it's not," I respond, letting my irritation seep into my voice. He and John both look at me. "It's not even something you _could _have done. You aren't psychic." Sherlock rolls his eyes and I glare at him. "And then there's the glaringly _obvious _fact that _you_ _weren't even there_." I hiss the last few words, and John shifts in his seat uncomfortably. "You were _too busy_, running around the museum trying to catch Zhi Zhu." I pause, relishing the widening of Sherlock's eyes. "Because that worked _so well_ the last time." Sherlock flinches slightly. I cross my arms and turn to the window, leaning back in my seat. I feel Sherlock observing me from across the taxi.

"Something happened when you met Mycroft that has you irritable," he says slowly. I glare at him again before sighing.

"Something _did _happen, and it has me…" I pause, searching for the right word, "confused. And I don't handle confusion well." They both look at me. "I'm psychic." I shrug before turning back to the window. The taxi pulls in front of Scotland Yard. "I'm not normally confused."

"_That's_ why you were so short at the museum!" John exclaims as the car stops fully. I push the door open and hop out, stepping around to pay. I turn towards the steps and see Sherlock and John already halfway up. I jog to catch up to them. "So what _else _confuses you? Just so I know what to stay away from in the future." I fall in step next to Sherlock as we walk through the double doors.

"Sherlock," I answer without thinking. "Sherlock confuses me." Both men stop in the middle of the lobby while I keep walking. I get up to reception and ask for Dimmock. I turn back to find John frowning and Sherlock…smiling? It's very slight, but it's still there. _Huh_. I think back to what I've said and grimace. _Great, just what I need. If I thought the teasing was bad BEFORE, it's going to be even worse NOW. _I turn back so the receptionist can tell me what floor Dimmock's on and head to the elevator. I hear Sherlock and John fall in step behind me and I turn to John once the doors are closed. "You say _anything_ to _anyone_ and I'll… I'll…." John smirks at me. "I'll figure something out, and you _won't _like it!" He chuckles and I glare at him. I glance at Sherlock, who's still smiling. I glare at him, too. "What're you smiling at?"

"I'm _sure_ you could find _something_ with which to threaten John," he answers sarcastically. I think for a minute before grinning innocently at him. "What?" His eyes narrow.

"I'm _sure_ I could find _somewhere_ to hide your violin," I respond. "Somewhere you won't find it." He glares at me as John chuckles. I turn back to John. "And I'm sure I could find a nice bonfire to donate all your jumpers to." He stops laughing and looks at me in shock.

"You_ wouldn't_," he says. I smile sweetly at him.

"Try me," I reply. I turn back to the doors of the elevator, feeling them both glaring at me. The elevator dings and the doors open. I step out and head towards Dimmock. He glances up at me from where he's standing and I smile. He smiles back, then frowns as he glances over my shoulder. He looks down and starts rummaging through some paperwork.

"Kat," he greets.

"Guess where _we've_ just come from?" I ask. He glances up at me before looking back down as Sherlock and John reach us. "The Antiquities Museum." He ignores me. "Trying to hunt down a murderer." He tenses when I say this but continues to ignore me.

"How many murders is it gonna take before you start believing that this maniac's out there?" John asks in anger. Dimmock turns and walks between the three of us, heading for another desk. John turns to follow him and continues. "A young girl was nearly gunned down tonight. That's—"

"John," I interrupt. He stops and I walk to Dimmock. "Detective Inspector, a young girl by the name of Soo Lin Yao was very nearly _murdered _by the same man who killed Van Coon and Lukis." He looks up at me. "The _only_ reason she's still alive is because I was there to divert the bullet." His eyes widen as Sherlock walks towards us.

"Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers," Sherlock says, leaning closer before continuing. "A gang called the Black Lotus, operating here in London _right_ under your nose." Dimmock looks back and forth from Sherlock to me. He stops to look at Sherlock.

"Can you prove that?" he asks. Sherlock straightens up thoughtfully. I smile.

"Of course we can," I answer. The three of them all look at me.

"We _can_?" John asks in disbelief. I nod.

"St. Bart's," I respond. Sherlock nods before heading towards the elevator, John glancing at me before turning to follow Sherlock. I turn to Dimmock, who's watching the two men leave. "You really should trust him." He looks at me. "He's arrogant, insulting and socially inept…" Dimmock smiles. "But he _does _know what he's doing." Dimmock tilts his head at me.

"How do you know?" he asks. I turn back towards the elevator, smiling softly.

"I met him once as a child," I answer. I can feel Dimmock staring at me in shock. "He was absolutely brilliant, even back then. A lot more open and compassionate, though." I turn back to look at Dimmock. "He saved my life."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"Molly will probably be in the cafeteria," I say as we walk through St. Bart's, Sherlock leading the way. When we reach the double doors, he stops and turns around to look at the three of us.

"You three stay here," he says. "I'll handle this." He turns again and walks through the doors towards Molly while I roll my eyes.

"Poor Molly," John mutters. I look at him and raise my eyebrows. "When plain asking isn't going to work, he's going to 'flirt' with her, if you can call it that." John shrugs his shoulders. "I feel bad." I tilt my head at him before bursting out laughing. He looks at me in shock while I calm down.

"I don't know that it'll work, John," I state, turning to walk through the doors. I sneak up behind Sherlock, careful not to let Molly see me. I stand about two feet back from him.

"You've…changed your hair," Sherlock says.

"What?" Molly asks nervously. I cross my arms in front of my chest.

"The-the style," Sherlock responds. "It's usually parted in the middle."

"Yes, well…"

"Mmm, it's good," Sherlock continues. "It, um, suits you better this way." I chuckle silently. There's an awkward pause in their conversation, and I feel the urge to jump in, but Molly speaks before I can.

"Thanks for the compliment, Sherlock," she says, her voice a little stronger than before. I can tell Sherlock thinks he's won. "But flattery isn't going to make me wheel those bodies out for you." I outright laugh as I step around Sherlock to face Molly, catching the frown on Sherlock's face.

"Will bribery work?" I ask, smirking. Molly grins while Sherlock rolls his eyes. "There's this nice little dress I _know_ you've been eyeing." I uncross my arms and put my hands in my jean pockets, shrugging my shoulders. "It _might_ find its way into your closet somehow if we get a look at those two bodies."

"I don't know…" Molly responds, biting her lip. I sigh.

"We only need them for a second," I reply. "We just have to show the D.I. something, and then we'll be out of your hair." I pause for a moment. "And I promise Mr. Cheekbones here won't beat them with a riding crop or anything." Molly laughs while Sherlock glares at me.

"Well…."

"_Please_?" I beg. I tilt my head down and to the side and give the best puppy face I can muster, complete with pouting lower lip and wide eyes.

"Okay, okay, fine," she responds, laughing. "You win. But only because I can't resist that face."

"Woo-hoo! The face _always_ wins!" I reply, laughing.

"And you owe me a dress!" she continues. I nod, still laughing. Sherlock just looks back and forth at us like we're completely insane. This remains to be decided in my case. "Sherlock, go get Dimmock and meet us in the morgue. We'll go on ahead." Sherlock just watches us again before turning on his heel and heading to the others. Molly giggles softly and I look at her, puzzled.

"You're the only one he _really _listens to," she says. I mock-glare at her before sighing. I start to walk away, heading to the morgue. "Hey, you okay?" I stop and turn to look at her.

"Walk with me, Molls," I respond. "I've had a _huge_ revelation today, and maybe you can help me sort it out." She nods thoughtfully and starts walking. We head out of the cafeteria and down the hallway. "Remember when Mycroft kidnapped me this morning?" She nods.

"That feels like _ages _ago," she responds.

"He took me to meet their parents," I continue. Molly looks at me sharply and gasps. "Seems everybody, even their _mother_, ships us." Molly chuckles.

"Is that the revelation you were talking about?" she asks.

"No," I answer, shaking my head. "No, the revelation happened when she pulled out some old photo albums. Turns out, fifteen years ago, when Mycroft graduated from school, the Holmes family took a trip to celebrate." Molly nods, and I can almost hear the gears turning in her head. "A trip to America, where Mycroft got hurt and they had to visit a hospital." We walk through a second set of doors. "Guess who Sherlock met while they were there?"

"You," Molly answers. I remain silent for a moment, and she turns to look at me. "Don't tell me it wasn't." She points her finger at me. "If you say it wasn't you then you're in denial."

"I _can't _be in denial about it, Molls," I respond softly. "Mrs. Holmes managed to take a _picture _of the two of us. There was photographic _proof_ right in my hands." Molly gasps before putting an arm around my shoulder. We continue to walk like that through the hospital until we reach the set of doors to the morgue.

"Kat…."

"It's so _frustrating_!" I cry suddenly, unable to hold back. Molly turns and stands in front of me, wrapping her arms around me. "He's so much _colder_ now! He's like a robot: He only cares about solving the next case. It's like he's a completely different person!"

"Shh, it'll be okay," Molly coos, helping me calm down. "It'll be fine." I pull back slightly to look at her.

"How do you know?" I ask. She chuckles.

"I've known Sherlock since before you moved here," she answers. "You can't see it, because you're causing the change in him. But that's the point: _You_ are causing a _change _in him. He's not as cold _now _as he was before that day here at Bart's." I tilt my head at her. "Before? He wouldn't have even _thought_ of using compliments to get his way."

"Great," I groan. "So I'm making him more manipulative." Molly chuckles at me.

"No, silly," she responds. "You're making him more _understanding_." I groan again.

"Isn't that basically the same thing?" I ask. She laughs at me.

"You'll see," she responds. "It'll all work out. Just act normal." I mock-glare at her. "Well, as normal as you _can _act." My glare turns into a scowl and she laughs. She opens the doors in front of us. "Just don't think about it. Let it happen." We walk inside and Molly heads toward the drawers. "Come on, help me with these." I help Molly get the bodies—they're in body bags, fortunately—and lay them out in the middle of the room. Molly puts on latex gloves and moves to unzip one of the bags just as Sherlock and Dimmock walk into the room.

"We're just interested in the feet," Sherlock calls. Molly turns to me and grimaces.

"The feet?" she asks. I chuckle.

"Yes," Sherlock answers. "D'you mind if we have a look at them?" He smiles at her and she frowns at him, making him frown when she shrugs her shoulders and walks to the opposite end of the bag, unzipping it to reveal the feet. They stand there for just a moment as Sherlock gets a smug look on his face. He walks over to the other bag. "Now Van Coon." Molly follows him and opens the bag. They stand for another second before Dimmock sighs. "Oh!"

"So…" Dimmock trails off.

"So either these two men just happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlor or I'm telling the truth," Sherlock finishes.

"Sherlock," I call. He looks over at me and I shake my head. "Be nice." He scowls and I hear Molly chuckle. Dimmock sighs in resignation.

"What do you want?" he asks.

"I want every book from Lukis' apartment _and_ Van Coon's," Sherlock answers.

"Their books?" Dimmock asks, confused, but he doesn't get an answer as Sherlock strides out of the morgue. He turns to me. "He did say their books, right?" I nod.

"Yeah, it probably doesn't make a lot of sense," I respond. Molly chuckles.

"Maybe for us _normal_ people," Molly says, "but I bet _you _know _exactly_ why he wants the books." I shrug as Dimmock pulls out his phone and turns to leave.

"I might have an idea," I respond. "Now, come on, Molls. I'll help you put these bodies back." We zip the bags up and wheel the bodies back into the drawers they came from. Molly turns to me.

"Come on, let's get some coffee," she says, smiling. I start to protest but she cuts me off. "Mr. Cheekbones can wait. We need to get you sorted. Okay?" I shrug my shoulders and smile.

"Thanks," I reply, returning her smile. We head back towards the cafeteria, order coffee and sit in silence at one of the tables opposite the doors.

"So, are you in love with him?" Molly asks as I take a sip. I start choking on my coffee.

"WHAT?!" I shriek once I stop coughing. Molly sips her coffee nonchalantly.

"Him changing since America wouldn't bother you so much if you didn't feel something for him," she states. I narrow my eyes at her. "Simple deduction on my part." I look down at the table.

"I… I don't know," I groan, putting my elbows on the table and my face in my hands. There's a pounding starting in my head. "That's why this is so frustrating. I don't think I had feelings for him before. At least, not really." Molly tilts her head. "I got nicked in the arm a couple days ago. He cleaned it up for me, his face got really close to mine." Molly smirks. "Shut up!" She laughs and I glare at her before sighing and continuing. "But then he turns out to be the same person, the kid from the hospital, who I _do_ have feelings for. Even back then, I could feel the connection." Molly nods.

"Being psychic and everything," she says. I nod and grimace. The pounding's getting worse. "You okay?" I shake my head.

"Headache," I respond just as someone walks up to our table.

"Hello, ladies," our visitor greets. I look up to see a man in his thirties wearing slacks and a T-shirt. I take a closer look and see tinted eyelashes, visible underwear, and a clockwork pendant on a silver chain, among other things. _Gay_. "Mind if I join you?"

"Jim!" Molly welcomes. "Hi! Sure, you can join us." I glance at her and raise my eyebrows as Jim pulls a chair over to our table. She sticks her tongue out at me.

"So _you're _the Jim from IT," I say, turning to look at him. I smile, trying to ignore the pounding: It's like a drumbeat. "The one Molly's told me all about." Jim grins and nods.

"Yup!" he replies. "And you must be…Kat, right?" I nod.

"Yeah, best friend from America, that's me," I answer. I turn back to Molly. "You tell your boyfriends about me?" Molly blushes bright red.

"We-We're not dating," she answers sheepishly. "We've been out once." I laugh.

"I'm just teasing, Molls," I say. "You tease me about Sherlock." Jim sits a bit straighter in his chair. "I figure it's only fair to turn the tables."

"You know Sherlock?" Jim asks. I nod. "I've heard about him. I've wanted to meet him for a while, see if he's really as brilliant as Molly's told me." I glance at Molly again, smirking.

"He is," I respond. "I live upstairs from him." I pause. "It's never boring." Molly laughs.

"Kat's practically his girlfriend," Molly interjects. I glare at her and she grins.

"Molly!"

"What?" she asks, smirking. "It's true. He listens to you, doesn't say hurtful things about you. And he saved your life, remember?"

"He did?" Jim asks as my phone beeps. I pull it out of my pocket and read the text, groaning.

**Books are here. Could use your help. –SH**

"I've got to go," I say, standing up. "The books have arrived. Sherlock's asking for my help." Molly smirks again and turns to Jim.

"See? Told you so," she says. I glare at her again before turning to Jim.

"It was nice to meet you, Jim," I say.

"Yeah, you too," he responds. I turn to leave, mock-saluting before I go.

"Later, Molls!" I call.

"Bye, Kat!" she replies. I walk out the double doors and reply to Sherlock's text.

**On my way. –KW**

I head outside and hail a taxi, giving the cabbie the address before stepping inside. The farther from the hospital I get, the less painful the pounding in my head becomes. _Weird_. I watch as the city flies by. The taxi pulls up in front of 221B, and I step out and pay the cabbie. I head into the building and walk into the boys flat to find crates of books _everywhere_. Sherlock is standing by some crates, rummaging through them while John is sitting at the dining table.

"Well," I mutter as I pull my jacket off. "This is going to be fun." I walk over to the sofa, sit down and start pulling books out of the nearest crates.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

We're still looking at books when John's watch starts beeping. I glance up at him as he looks at it and then looks out the window. I'm surprised to see sunlight filtering in. I glance at John again and see that he's taken his cardigan off. He sighs tiredly and buries his head in his hands. I glance over at Sherlock and see that he's removed his jacket. I try not to think about how tight his purple shirt is. Molly's words from the night before flash through my mind and I shake my head to clear it. _Don't go down that path, Kat_._ Focus_.

"I need to get going," John says as he gets up out of his chair.. "I've got work." I hum in acknowledgement as he walks to his bedroom. A few minutes later he walks back out and leaves the flat. I look up at Sherlock to see him still rummaging. I sigh and pull out a new stack of books to look through.

Five hours later, I yawn. Sherlock looks up at me and frowns.

"You're still here," he says. I can hear the confusion in his voice.

"Yes, Sherlock," I respond. "I'm still here." I yawn again on the word "here". "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I figured you would have gone upstairs and gotten some sleep at some point," he answers. "Why didn't you?" I shrug my shoulders.

"Meh. I thought I'd stay and help, actually," I reply. "Though now that you mention it, I think a nap is in order." I grin and he turns back to the crates. I stand up and move the books I've looked through off the sofa. I walk over to John's chair and snag the Union Flag pillow before walking back towards the sofa.

"What're you doing?" Sherlock asks from behind me.

"What does it look like?" I counter.

"It looks like you're going to take a nap on my sofa," he responds. I chuckle as I plop down on said sofa.

"Astute deduction, Sherlock," I reply cheekily. "I'm impressed." I lie down, fold my hands together on my stomach and cross my ankles. "I figure I could sleep here. That way I'm not too far away if you need something." I turn my head to glance at him, smirking. "And I'd rather not have you picking the lock to my flat." He scowls at me and I chuckle again. He turns back to the crates and I start dozing off. I'm very nearly asleep when I hear a voice in my head.

_"Kat? … Hear…?"_

I open my eyes and turn to look at Sherlock. He glances up at me.

"Yes?" he asks.

"Were you…?" I start to ask, but I trail off. "Never mind." _Couldn't be_. I look at the ceiling again before turning completely and facing away from the room, folding my legs in. I shake my head slightly and chuckle at how ridiculous I'm being. I start dozing again when I hear the voice again, clearer. It sounds like Sherlock.

_"Kat? Can you hear me?"_

My eyes snap open this time and I sit up sharply to stare at Sherlock. He glances up again.

"…Yes?" he asks again. I stare at him for a second.

"Are you…projecting?" I ask. He looks at me in confusion. "Your thoughts: Are you projecting them? Making certain thoughts louder so I can hear them?"

"It worked," he says, nodding.

"Only because I'm exhausted," I respond. His eyes narrow. "Normally I've got mental walls up to keep stray thoughts from distracting me, especially around you." He looks confused again. "I tried reading your mind once, just after the cabbie incident. I was curious to see how your mind worked." He nods.

"And?"

"Your thoughts move too fast," I respond. "Looking into your mind gives me a headache, so I try to avoid it." I shrug. "I guess my walls started slipping because I stayed up all night." He nods thoughtfully. "How long have you been trying this?"

"The idea came to me when I was being strangled the other day," Sherlock answers. I chuckle.

"You think of me while you're being strangled?" I ask sarcastically. "I'm flattered." Sherlock glares at me before continuing.

"And I've been experimenting with it since the stakeout at the museum." I nod thoughtfully and lie back down. I can feel Sherlock watching me.

_"Still working?"_

I glance at him and project my thoughts back.

_"Yes."_

I smirk as his eyes widen.

_"I'm going to sleep. Let me know if you need anything."_

I hear him shuffling through books again as I finally fall asleep. The next thing I know, the door to the flat is opening. I glance up to see John home from work. He nods at me before heading to his room. I sit up and pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. _Slept for three hours. Nice._ I glance at Sherlock as he walks over to the bookshelf.

"A book that everybody would own," he mutters as he pulls down three books. I stand up and stretch before walking over to him. He looks through the Concise Oxford English Dictionary when I walk up. "Fifteen. Entry one." He puts the book down after checking the word and picks up the Holy Bible. I glance at the third book and grimace, picking it up.

"Sherlock, what is this?" I ask. The title of the book is _Syphilis and Local Contagious Disorders_. He glances up at me and puts the Bible down.

"It's a book," he answers, pulling the book from my hands.

"Don't get smart with me," I say as I cross my arms. He opens the book to page fifteen. I chuckle as he puts the book down and props his elbows on a nearby crate. At the same time I hear John's door slam shut. Sherlock runs his fingers through his hair, ruffling it up. _Wonder if it's as soft as it looks_. I shake my head, trying to clear it. _Dammit, Molly!_ John walks out into the room.

"I need to get some air. We're going out tonight," Sherlock says.

"Actually," John responds, smiling smugly. "I've, er, got a date." I look over at him and smile.

"Nice!" I say.

"What?" Sherlock asks at the same time.

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun, Sherlock," I respond, laughing, before turning to John. "Sarah?" John nods.

"That's what _I_ was suggesting," Sherlock replies. I shake my head at him.

"No it wasn't," John says. "At least I _hope _it wasn't." Sherlock sulks away.

"Where are you taking her?" I ask.

"Er, cinema," John answers. I smile.

"Oh, dull, boring, predictable," Sherlock responds and I frown at him. He takes a piece of paper from his pocket and walks across the room to John. He lowers his head and I catch a smug smile on his face that he hides from John. ""Why don't you try this?" John takes the piece of paper and looks at it. "In London for one night only." John chuckles and gives the paper back to Sherlock.

"Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice," John says. I laugh.

"What's it for?" I ask, heading over to look at the paper. Sherlock offers it to me. "Yellow Dragon Circus, huh?" Sherlock nods. "Sounds like it could be fun." I turn to John. "Oh, go on, John. You can take Sarah to the cinema _any_ time. This is _one night only_." John looks thoughtful before nodding and taking the paper from me. I glance at Sherlock to see him smiling. "I'm gonna go upstairs and change. I need some fresh clothes." He nods. I turn around and walk out the door, heading up the stairs to my flat. I lock the door behind me and head towards the bathroom. I turn the shower on and get ready.

One relaxing shower later, I pull on some blue jeans and a purple baby doll tee that says "I don't lack the ability to focus. I have the super mind powers to focus on tons of things all at the same time. So take that, boring normal brain people." It reminds me of Sherlock. I'm looking in the mirror and brushing through my hair when I hear the lock on the front door click. I sigh as it swings open.

"You couldn't knock?" I ask as Sherlock appears in the mirror behind me. He shakes his head.

"I was wondering if you'd like to join me," he says. I raise my eyebrow. "For the circus tonight."

"It's for the case, isn't it," I say. His eyes widen. "You seem to forget how observant I am sometimes. You wouldn't have had that piece of paper if it weren't important. And 'Yellow Dragon Circus' sounds just a bit Oriental to me." Sherlock nods.

"So…"

"Sure, why not," I respond, smiling. He smiles back slightly, and I feel my heart stutter. "Should be fun."

* * *

**A/N:**

And there we are. Hope you liked.

I hate to sound like I'm fishing for reviews, but they really do keep me going. So, please: Review!


	14. Performances

**A/N:** Another chapter. That's two in as many days. Not even 24 hours in between. Hope this makes up for the wait for the one yesterday!

**Some notes on reviews:**

**FangirlKatydid:** There's more fluff in this chapter. Right now I can't make it too fluffy, because, contrary to what we all wish, Sherlock is _not_ a fluffy person. I'm glad I'm safe, because your wrath is probably a _scary_ thing. And I work with you, so it would be in person.

**foxchick1: ** Here's the circus. Hope you like it.

**ciabha:** Thanks for the reviews. I like your description of her. Got another reference for you in this one.

**Fuchsia Grasshopper:** It wouldn't let me put the dot in your name. Thanks! I'm glad you like it! Here's your update.

**dixiejess321: ** Thanks for the review. She is epic! And (not saying _anything_, except I kind of am) Sherlock has known who she is from the beginning. And you know if your (future-)boyfriend's mother ships the two of you, it either means it's a match made in heaven, or his mother is _desperate_ to have grandchildren.

**Thank you for all the _wonderful _reviews! Here's the next chapter!**

* * *

Performances

Sherlock _insists_ we follow John and Sarah to the circus. We walk side-by-side in silence, several paces back from the two. I listen as John and Sarah make casual conversation, and chuckle when John "a friend recommended" the circus to him. I pull my phone out and send a quick text to both Molly and Audrey.

**On my way to the circus with You-Know-Who. It's for the case. –KW**

I'm about to put my phone back in my pocket when my foot catches on a crack in the concrete. I throw my arms up in front of me, hoping to catch myself before my face can kiss pavement. There's a flash of black and blue, and suddenly I'm not falling anymore. I feel a pair of strong arms wrap around me and look up to see Sherlock staring down at me. I flush in embarrassment.

"Sorry," I mutter, pulling myself from his arms and taking a step back. "I wasn't paying attention." Sherlock frowns, remaining silent. My phone beeps twice and I read the reply from Audrey.

**Voldemort? Just kidding. I know who you're talking about. Have fun! –AW**

I chuckle as I start walking again before scrolling down to Molly's reply. I hear Sherlock following behind me.

**Go get him! ;) –MH**

I groan as we walk into the building and slide my phone back into my pocket. I see Sherlock watching me and I shake my head.

"And what's the name?" I hear someone ask as we approach the Box Office. Sherlock stops at a corner in the hallway, gesturing for me to stay back.

"Er, Holmes," I hear John answer. I glance at Sherlock to see him smirking.

_"You convinced him to let you order the tickets?"_ I ask, projecting. His eyes widen as he nods.

_"That's going to take some getting used to,"_ he projects back. I chuckle.

_"Tell me about it. The first time I heard someone's thoughts, it was _really _confusing. I was answering unspoken questions. Took me some time to figure it out."_

"Actually, I have four in that name," I hear Box Office guy say.

"No, I don't think so," John responds. "We only booked two." Sherlock steps around the corner and I follow.

"And then I phoned back and got tickets for Kat and myself as well," he says. I cross my arms in front of me and roll my eyes at him, then send an apologetic glance at John. Sherlock offers Sarah his hand. "I'm Sherlock." Sarah glances at John for a moment before turning back to Sherlock and shaking his hand. John turns away in exasperation.

"Er, hi," she says.

"Hello," Sherlock responds, giving her his fake smile. He then turns and walks away, heading up a nearby set of stairs. I shake my head.

"Sorry," I say, unfolding my arms and stepping up to offer Sarah my hand. "He's a character." Sarah takes my hand and I smile warmly. "I'm Kat."

"Are you his date?" Sarah asks. I laugh and shake my head.

"Nah, I'm mostly here to make sure he behaves," I respond. Sarah nods.

"Speaking of behaving," John says. "I should probably go make sure he doesn't insult anyone important." I nod and he heads up the stairs after Sherlock.

"Must be a lot of work," Sarah says. I shake my head and glance at John's retreating figure before answering.

"I've been told I'm the only one he'll listen to," I respond.

"Well, he obviously likes you," she says. I chuckle again.

"I'm not so sure."

"You'll see," she replies. "Men have a funny way of admitting emotional things. Sherlock's is probably even worse, from what I've heard about him." I laugh again.

"Come on, we probably shouldn't keep them waiting," I say, and Sarah nods. We start heading up the stairs after the boys. We're about to turn around the corner when John's voice reaches us.

"While I'm trying to get off with Sarah!" he exclaims. We turn the corner and I smirk at Sherlock before turning to Sarah.

"Is that what you were talking about?" I ask. She chuckles and blushes slightly as John turns to look at us.

"He-y," he says, smiling awkwardly. I chuckle as I pass him and catch up to Sherlock, who rolls his eyes and continues up the stairs.

_"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"_ I ask. He smirks at me.

_"I don't know _what _you're talking about,"_ he responds. I roll my eyes at him as we walk into a large room. There's a stage in the back with the curtains pulled closed. In the middle of the room are candles that have been laid out in a large circle. The room is dimly lit. I glance at the stage in the back.

_"Try back there,"_ I project. He looks at me and then looks at the stage before nodding. Sherlock and I stand to the side and wait for John and Sarah to join us. The reach us and stand slightly in front.

"You said circus," John whispers over his shoulder at Sherlock. "This is _not_ a circus. Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is…." He pauses before grimacing. "Art." Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"This is not their day job," he whispers back, still looking at the stage.

"No, sorry, I forgot," John responds. "They're _not _a circus: They're a gang of international smugglers." I chuckle as the tapping of a drum starts. Sherlock turns to look at the center of the room like everybody else. John looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, who quirks an eyebrow at him. A Chinese woman in an ornate costume walks into the center of the circle and looks out at the audience before raising her hand in the air. Her eyes rest on me. I feel a chill go up my spine and I shiver. Sherlock glances at me from the corner of his eye. The drumming quickens and then stops. The Chinese woman walks across the circle to a large object covered with a cloth. She pulls the cloth back to reveal an ancient-looking crossbow on a stand. She then picks up a long, thick wooden arrow with white feathers at one end and a vicious metal point at the other and shows it to the audience before fitting it into place in the crossbow. Straightening up, she pulls a single small white feather from her headdress and again shows it to us. On the rear of the crossbow is a small, metal cup. The Chinese woman gently drops the feather into it. Instantly the arrow releases and whizzes across the room and into the wooden board on the other side of the room. My head whips around to follow its flight. I hear John and Sarah gasp and look at them just as they turn to look at the arrow. Sarah turns to John and laughs, dramatically putting her hand over her heart. Instrumental music starts to play. The audience applauds as a man wearing chainmail and an ornate head mask enters the circle. I cross my arms in front of me. He holds his arms out to the sides and two men come over and start to attach heavy chains and straps to him, strapping his now-folded arms in front of him and then back him up against the board and start chaining him to it.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," Sherlock says softly. John and Sarah turn to look at him.

"Hmm?" John hums.

"The crossbow's on a delicate string," Sherlock responds. "The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires."

The Chinese woman loads another arrow into the crossbow. The two men attach more padlocks and chains. One of them pulls a chain tight, yanking the warrior's head back against the board. The warrior cries out. The men loop the chains through solid rings attached to the board and secure the warrior, who cries out again. Once they finish they step back. The music builds and some cymbals crash unexpectedly. Sarah jumps, clutching at John's arm with her left hand. I chuckle.

"Oh, God!" she says. "I'm sorry!" She laughs in embarrassment, taking his arm with her other hand as well. John laughs with her. She lets go of his arm with her right hand, but continues to hold onto his arm with her left.

_"Drama queen,"_ I hear in my head. I glance up at Sherlock and smirk.

_"Oh, because _you're _one to talk."_ I feel Sherlock glaring at me as the Chinese woman picks up a small knife and displays it to us.

"She splits the sandbag; the sand pours out," Sherlock says softly. "Gradually the weight lowers into the bowl." The Chinese woman does exactly what Sherlock says she would. She reaches up to a small sandbag hanging on a long cable and stabs the knife into the bottom of it. Sand begins to pour out. The warrior repeatedly cries out with effort as he tugs at his chains. I feel my heart start to race as the weight lowers. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to _see_ if he'll make it. I smile as the answer comes to me, and my heart rate slows a little. The warrior cries out again. Just as the weight is a foot from the bowl, I turn to see Sherlock heading toward the stage.

_"Sneaking off?"_ I ask. He stiffens mid-stride. _"Just be careful."_ He nods once before continuing. I turn back to the show to see the arrow fly. With a split second to spare, the warrior pulls free of the chains and ducks down. The arrow thuds into the board just above him. The warrior cries out triumphantly as everybody claps. Sarah gasps in relief.

"Thank God," she says.

"My God!" John agrees. The warrior stands up and takes the applause. John turns to look over his shoulder while he's clapping. He turns fully when he doesn't find Sherlock. He turns to me and raises his eyebrows. I smile and shrug. John gives me a stern look before turning back to the center of the room. The Chinese woman raises her hand up again to stop the applause.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she says. I feel another chill. "From the distant, moonlit shores of the Yangtze River, we present for you pleasure: The deadly Chinese bird-spider." As she walks away, a masked acrobat descends from the ceiling, rolling through the air as the broad, red band wrapped around his waist unravels. The audience applauds and he stops a couple of feet above the ground, holding his body parallel to the floor.

"Did you see that?!" John asks in astonishment, leaning over to Sarah. As the acrobat continues his performance, I focus on the stage area.

_"The Chinese woman is headed your way," _I project to Sherlock. _"And the acrobat out here is Soo Lin's brother."_ I glance over at the stage to see Sherlock glancing out the curtains.

_"How can you tell?"_ he asks.

_"He _feels_ the same,"_ I respond. I see him move quickly and I know he's hiding from the Chinese woman. _"Oh, and you'll find a bag at your feet. Check it out."_ I turn to look at the acrobat.

_"Found the spray paint,"_ Sherlock responds. _"And the warrior from earlier."_ I turn to the stage again and see the curtain billow. I sigh as John turns to look and frowns. He then turns back to the center of the room as the acrobat performs a complicated stunt. The curtains billow even more. A few moments later, Sherlock flies backwards through the curtains and off the stage. He crashes onto his back, and I can tell he's had the wind knocked out of him. The warrior flies out of the curtains after him and lands on the floor in front of him. John runs toward the fight as the warrior raises his knife. John runs straight into him, pushing him back against the edge of the stage, but the warrior kicks John, sending him stumbling across the room. Sarah shouts for people to leave, taking control of the fleeing crowd. I push my way through frightened people and make my way to the wooden board, pulling the arrow from it. I run across the room just as the warrior stalks toward Sherlock, who is _still_ lying on the floor, winded. Just as the warrior raises a wide-bladed sword—_where did he get _that_ from?_—I slam the arrow over the top of his head. He cries out in pain, and before he can react, I swing the arrow sideways and smash it across his ribs. I continue like that until he falls to the ground. I straighten up, slightly breathless, as Sherlock sits up and leans forward to the warrior's right foot, pulling his shoe off to reveal a Tong tattoo on his heel. John turns around, though he's almost doubled over in pain, and heads toward Sarah, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the exit. Sherlock scrambles to his feet as I pull my phone out and snap a picture of the warrior and the tattoo on his foot.

"Come on!" John shouts almost voicelessly. Sherlock grabs my hand and we race towards them.

"Come on! Let's go!" he shouts. We make our way outside and down the street.

"That's the _second_ time I've had to beat someone away from you," I comment to Sherlock. He smiles before reaching into his coat and pulling out his phone, calling Dimmock. I glance over to see John hunched over. I start to head towards him before I notice that Sherlock still has a tight hold on my hand. _I'm glad my face is red from running._ I tug my hand slightly.

_"You can let go at any time, Sherlock,"_ I project. He glances down at our hands before pulling his away from mine. I glance up at him to see his face just a _bit_ pinker than before. I smile and turn to John and Sarah.

"Definitely some bruising," Sarah says as I walk up. "You're gonna be sore for a few days."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," I state. Sarah looks at me in confusion.

"What?" She asks. I ignore her.

"John, remember the other day at Soo Lin's flat?" I ask. I see him nod.

"Could you, please?" he asks. I nod and walk over to him. I place my hands on his back, close my eyes and focus. He hisses for a second as my hands warm. We stand like that for a couple minutes before I smile and pull my hands back.

"Better?" I ask as he straightens up. He takes in a deep breath.

"Much," he answers, smiling. Sarah looks between us, confused.

"What was that?" she asks. I chuckle apprehensively.

"That was Psychokinesis on a living target," I respond. "I'm psychic, and one of the things I can do is healing people." She tilts her head at me before nodding.

"Alright," she says. John looks at her.

"Alright?" he asks. She nods, smiling.

"Yeah, alright," she answers. "I had an aunt that could do the same thing, only much more slowly." She pauses. "She's the reason I became a doctor." I smile.

"I'm glad you accept it," I respond. "Most people are skeptical. Some people get cruel about it."

"They usually do when something doesn't hold to their ideals," Sarah replies.

"We need to get to the Yard," Sherlock says, interrupting. The three of us turn to look at him. "They're sending people out to check." I nod and start walking towards the main street.

"Come on, then," I call. "We don't have all night." I hail a taxi when I reach the street. The four of us pile in before I tell the cabbie where to go. Sarah and I talk about her aunt and my abilities on the ride there.

"So, you've got PKLT," she says. "What else can you do?" I shrug my shoulders.

"Oh, not much," I respond. I see John grinning from his seat. "I've got post-cognition, pre-cognition, psychometry, Psychokinesis—all three forms—and telepathy." Sarah's eyes widen.

"Really? All that?" she asks. I nod. I glance out the window to see the cab stop in front of the NSY building. The four of us get out and I pay the cabbie. We head into the building and ask the receptionist to let Dimmock know we're here. She calls him and lets us know he's on his way. A minute later the elevator dings and we look to see Dimmock beckoning us. We step into the elevator and stand in silence on the way up. The elevator dings again, letting us know we're on the right floor, and we follow Dimmock out. He's clearly not in a good mood.

_"Hall was probably deserted,"_ I say to Sherlock. He nods.

"I sent a couple of cars," Dimmock says. "The old hall is totally deserted." I frown.

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus—the tattoo that we saw on the two bodies: The mark of the Tong." Dimmock reaches his desk and turns to face us.

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a-a smuggling operation," John adds. "Now, one of them stole something when they were in China; something valuable."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back," I finish.

"Get _what_ back?" Dimmock asks. Sherlock bites his lip, looking away in frustration.

"We don't know," John answers hesitantly.

"You don't know," Dimmock repeats.

"I think it's a piece of jewelry," I say, startling everyone. "Not something extravagant, just something small. I don't even think the thief realized how valuable it was." Sherlock nods, smiling slightly. Dimmock sighs.

"Mr. Holmes," he says, sitting down. "I've done everything you asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something." Sherlock looks up with a faint but proud smile. "And Kat has asked me to trust you, said you know what you're doing." He looks at me in surprise. I shrug. "I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have _something _to show for it—other than a massive bill for overtime." Sherlock looks down again and starts to leave. I pull my phone out.

"I have a picture of one of the performer's Tong tattoo," I announce. I pull the picture up on my phone and hand it to Dimmock. "I'm not sure this will be _enough_, but it will be _something_." He nods, looking at the picture.

"This is proof that they were there. That's all my bosses need, really," he says. He looks up at me. "I'll have to keep this as evidence, you know." I nod, smiling.

"Yeah, I know," I respond. "Just let me know when I can have it back." He nods.

"Will do." The four of us leave.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

We get back to 221B where Sherlock leads John, Sarah and I into the living room. Sherlock takes his coat off and heads over to the fireplace.

"They'll be back in China by tomorrow," John comments.

"No," I respond, shaking my head. "They won't leave without what they came for. We need to find their hide-out; the rendezvous." Sherlock walks closer to the photos, staring at them intently. John looks at the pictures, too, while Sarah stands nearby, forgotten by the two men. Sherlock runs his fingers over the main picture of the painted brick wall.

"Somewhere in this message," he mutters. "It _must_ tell us." Sarah looks between the two men before seeming to realize something.

"Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it," she says. John and Sherlock start speaking simultaneously: John letting her stay while Sherlock tries to get her to leave. I laugh as John glares at Sherlock.

"Please, stay if you'd like," I say. Sherlock glares at me before turning back to the photographs. Sarah smiles awkwardly.

"Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?" she asks.

"Oh, God," Sherlock groans.

"Sherlock," I call sweetly. He turns to look at me. "Be nice." He glowers at me. "Please?" He sighs and turns to the dining table, sitting down and rummaging through the photographs on the table. John heads to the kitchen while Sarah and I make small talk.

"Hold on a sec," I say, turning to run up the stairs to grab some food. I grab a carton of punch from my fridge, put some crisps into a bowl, and some dip into another. I carry these down the stairs carefully and walk in through the kitchen. "John, help me with these, would you?" He turns to look up at me and grins. He walks over to help me. "I've got punch, crisps and dip."

"You're a _saint_, Kat!" he exclaims softly. I shake my head at him.

"I don't know that I'd trust anything from this kitchen," I respond. "You never know _what_ that man's been doing in here." John laughs.

"John, Kat," Sherlock calls from the living room.

"Hmm?" John hums as we turn towards Sherlock.

"Come, look at this," he says. He takes the photo out of the evidence bag as John and I walk out of the kitchen. "Soo Lin at the museum—she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it!" He glares at me. "Why didn't you tell us?" I shrug my shoulders.

"Too busy trying to stop her brother from killing her, I guess," I answer, irritated. He frowns, and then inspects the photo closely to read Soo Lin's writing. "'Nine', 'Mill'."

"Does that mean 'millions'?" John asks.

"Nine million quid," Sherlock says thoughtfully. "For what?" He turns to grab his scarf and coat. "We need to know the end of this sentence."

"Where are you going?" John asks.

"To the museum; to the restoration room," Sherlock answers before grimacing. "Oh, we must have been staring right at it!"

"At-at what?" John asks.

"The _book_, John," Sherlock respond. "The _book_—the key to cracking the cipher!" He brandishes the photo at John. "Soo Lin used it to do this! Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk." He turns quickly and hurries out the door. I turn to Sarah, who's looking at the door in shock.

"Yeah, he's pretty much always like that," I say. She looks at me and starts laughing.

"Looks like a quiet night in, then," John says, moving to sit in the kitchen.

"Yeah!" Sarah responds, following John. "No, absolutely. I mean, well, a quiet night in's just-just what the doctor ordered." John laughs quietly. "Er, I mean, I'd love to go out of an evening and wrestle a few Chinese gangsters, you know, generally, but a girl can get too much." John giggles.

"Tell me about it," I respond, laughing. "And if it's not Chinese gangsters, it's something else." The three of us calm down.

"Hmm," John hums. "Um, shall we get a takeaway?" I nod.

"Yeah!" Sarah replies. John nods and gets up to find a menu.

"Third drawer from the fridge," I say. John looks up at me before checking the drawer. He pulls a menu out. I check my nails nonchalantly before looking up at them and grinning.

"Can I call you every time I lose my car keys?" Sarah asks as John calls the number on the paper. I laugh. "No, seriously." I shrug my shoulders at her.

"For a fee, maybe," I respond jokingly. She chuckles. "There _is_ something you could try first, though. And if _that_ doesn't work right away, then you could call me." She nods and I start explaining this simple incantation for finding lost objects. A few minutes later, someone knocks on the front door downstairs.

"Ooh, blimey, that was quick," John says.

"I've got it," I call, heading down the stairs. I hear John and Sarah mention trays and chuckle. I open the front door and glance at the Chinese man outside. He's wearing a jacket with the hood pulled up. "Sorry to keep you. How much is it?" I start to pull out my wallet.

"Do you have it?" he asks. I look up at him and realize that _not only _does he not have our food, but he _feels_ the same as Soo Lin's brother. I feign ignorance.

"What?" I ask.

"Do you have the treasure?" he asks. I take a step back.

"I don't understand," I respond. I'm just about to close the door when his arm swings up. There's a flash of pain on the side of my head, and a fall over into darkness.


End file.
